


Shackle Me

by elixirsoflife



Series: fade to black [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: HPFT, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobia, I know the tags are dark but I promise there's a happy ending!!!, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, James Potter is the best friend we all need, Like... Pretty Heavy Angst, M/M, Sirius deserves the world, Soulmate AU, Time Skips, can be read as a standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixirsoflife/pseuds/elixirsoflife
Summary: Soulmates aren't nearly as romantic as you think they are.Sirius knows.





	1. i'm in a life without a home

**Author's Note:**

> it's finally here! the 'ice baby' spin-off i've been going on about for a while. i started it on the 4th march apparently so it's taken me three months to finish and edit it. truth be told, i was v hesitant to upload it and even now i'm kind of scared?? it's v e r y different from 'ice baby', a lot angstier for one, and deals with more sensitive matters (pls take the warnings seriously, especially the homophobia tags). i honestly considered just leaving it on my laptop, but i've spent so long on it that i felt it would be a disservice to myself to not throw it out into the world? idk i second-guess myself a lot.
> 
> visual readers: [+sirius](https://78.media.tumblr.com/3d205f1c54d3d9fdddf92cb302c83dd2/tumblr_n3kh4xZHfq1t8241to3_400.gif) [+james](https://78.media.tumblr.com/954e9b08562065de321a03e1fdad81eb/tumblr_p4ztc5oKkE1rkaw0to1_400.gif) and [+remus](https://secure.static.tumblr.com/f7ff033cfa98b8e52ffa3065577580aa/k3w5ejo/VYcoas03v/tumblr_static_3hwjo8afciskkssckccssgs44_640_v2.gif) (except... younger lol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cr. for chapter title: rolling stone - the weeknd

_"A new love is something painful_  
_Two hearts, unstable_  
_I went numb and ran away_  
_So I wouldn't be able_  
_To get let down."_

\- dagny: that feeling when

 

Sirius is four years old when he first learns about soulmates.

Years later, the memory still stands vivid in his mind. The overcast day with its nippy wind, the mountain range of goosebumps on his exposed forearm, the delighted shrieks of his classmates as they sprint around in a furious game of Tag. The warmth of James’ arm against his own, the way their dark eyes squint at the indecipherable lettering on their skin, faint ridges raised slightly higher than the unblemished skin around them, and how high the younger boy’s voice climbs in his elation.

He is much more reluctant with his excitement, confused on just what makes this unknown person who is yet to enter his life more important than the best friend he already has, but James has a nasty habit of infecting all those around him with his enthusiasm. By the time he’s entered the cold, London townhouse he’s known his entire life, Sirius is enchanted with the idea that someone out there has been made for him. He drifts through his homework lost in thoughts about all the fun they might get up to: play-wrestling in the sand, running through the playground at breakneck speed, terrorising the teachers like he often does with James. The list goes on.

Even his father can’t quite snap him out of it, no matter how sternly he looks up from his very important papers, clucks his tongue and informs Sirius that he has fifteen minutes to finish his homework as well as the extra work his parents have set or else he won’t have any dessert. Sixteen minutes later, he’s threatened with losing his entire dinner if he isn’t out of the office within an additional ten.

It’s not until he’s tottering on a stool to wipe his mouth clean after devouring whatever fancy dish their cook whipped up that the excitement finally leaves him.

It’s his mother who does it. His mother who is busy feeding baby Regulus, nearly three years old but not quite there yet, and is pointedly ignoring his father’s empty seat at the table when Sirius mentions his recent discovery, his delight nearly tangible. His mother who doesn’t even face him as she scoffs in derision.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, drawl bored and dismissive. “Soulmates aren’t nearly as romantic as you think they are.”

“James says his mum says they used to be part of you,” he insists. “That once you were together, but now you’re apart and – “

His mother tips another spoonful of mash into Regulus’ waiting mouth. “Yes, I’m sure she did,” she cuts in. A cruel sort of amusement toys with her words, turns them high and sweet as they slip out of her mouth. “But I’m here to tell you different.”

“But – “

“No buts.” At last, she looks at him, regal face unforgiving and absolute. “You are a Black. More importantly, you are _my_ son, not Euphemia Potter’s, and you will behave like it. That means you listen to what I say and I say that you leave this sort of talk at the sink with the rest of your dishes and get into bed. Immediately.”

He’s four years old. His world consists of cold townhouse hallways, his family name and a boy with unruly hair and even worse behaviour; it’s dictated by the reprimands of his teachers, the unrelenting expectations of his father and the weight of a reputation he has yet to fully understand. In this land he lives in, his mother’s word is law.

He nods, swallowing back the bitter taste of disappointment. “Okay. I’m sorry, Mother,” he mutters obediently before hopping off the stool and going to bed.

The next day when James mentions the word _soulmates_ , he shoves him into the sandpit.

* * *

 

Truth be told, Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment he realised what kind of family he’s been born into. It’s a realisation that creeps upon him gradually, little hints and suggestions that strike him as somewhat strange and then linger on his skin and in the back of his mind until he comes to regard them as simple fact. By the time he’s nine years old, one might even say he’s indifferent to it.

What kind of family has he been born into?

The kind where strange, polished men enter his father’s study, the bland smiles they offer Sirius somehow the most dangerous things he’s ever had the misfortune to see. The kind where he sees the face of a mostly silent nanny more than he sees his mother’s despite the fact that she haunts the same hallways as him with nothing much to do. The kind where his father spends days, sometimes weeks, away from their house until he’s suddenly there at breakfast again, flicking through the newspaper while he sips on piping hot tea.

The kind where said father sometimes comes home with a foreign perfume clinging to his collar and the remnants of tacky pink lipstick on his jaw; the sight will infuriate Sirius’ mother within a heartbeat, transforming the quiet home into nothing short of a warzone. Vases will be thrown against walls, insults fired like missiles, shouts will claw their way up to where Regulus cowers in his brother’s arms – and then their father will leave once more, citing very important business as the reason and everything will be quiet again.

It’s the kind of family where Sirius is expected to stand, talk and breathe a certain way because he’s a Black and to stay away from that awful Potter child because he’s a Black and achieve full marks on all his tests because he’s a Black.

He tries to be that way, he really does, but he spends so long holding himself together at home that he can’t help but let his self-control shred away whenever he’s not. He’s sure his teachers have spoken to his nanny about it whenever she’s picked him up from school, but it seems her silence extends to Sirius’ mother too because he’s never been punished for it.

He’s not sure whether there’s a word to describe what kind of family he’s been born into. Technically speaking, he knows it’s not necessarily a pleasant one – after all, whenever he’s over at James’, it feels like he’s stepped into an alien land. The Potters are a splash of neon paint in his greyscale world, vivid and loud in their adoration for each other. James’ parents readily splatter him with the same, amused by his running joke of calling them Mum and Dad too.

(It stopped being funny years ago, but he likes the carelessness of it on his tongue, the informality, the way that the aging adults smile softly at him whenever he calls out to them that way.)

His lacklustre life is all he’s ever known, however, so the word _unpleasant_ is synonymous with _normal_ in the dictionary of his existence and it’s something he’s come to accept. It’s not as if it hurts or anything.

He’s nine years old when it starts to.

It is seven o’clock when it happens. At the time, Sirius is in the family room, his reading book in his hands, small teeth chewing anxiously on his bottom lip as the protagonist lands himself in a sticky situation. His mother sweeps into the room just as Finn is cornered by a bunch of ragamuffins, hands clasped behind her back. She coughs for his attention.

When he looks up, there’s a funny smile on her face. Her eyes are glossy in the dim lighting, pink spots high in her cheeks. There’s a certain air about her, reminiscent of a snake about to sink its fangs into its prey.

“I was on the phone to Charlotte Avery just now,” she says conversationally. “She has a son your age, you know.”

Not sure where she’s going with this, Sirius merely nods. Once, nice and slow. He knows the boy she’s speaking of. Thomas Avery: quiet, well-behaved, an observer where Sirius likes to command the centre of the stage that is their Year Four class. If pushed, he might even call Avery nice, but he doesn’t really care enough about him to do so.

“It’s funny,” his mother says with a little laugh that makes it clear she doesn’t actually think so. “Charlotte was telling me about how well-behaved he is in class, how the teachers positively sing his praises at Parents’ Evenings – you know, the ones I couldn’t make? So of course, I told her about how you’re also a model student and… well, it seems that her son, Thomas, doesn’t agree.”

Sirius freezes. “What do you mean?” he asks, swallowing the sudden, dry lump in his throat.

His mother’s smile reveals fangs dripping with dizzying poison, framed by deep dimples. “That was exactly my question. After all, you are a Black, are you not? There’s no reason for you to be misbehaving in lesson, no reason for you to be the class clown. Blacks are above that, are they not?”

“Y-Yes, Mother,” he says quietly.

“Then _why_ ,” her voice suddenly rises to a shout, “is Charlotte Avery telling me otherwise?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? _You don’t know?_ ” She sweeps forwardly suddenly, kneeling on the floor to force him to meet her eyes. They’re the exact same shape as his, but much more furious. Her hand darts out to grab his wrist, pulling him down towards her. “Do you take me for an idiot? Is that all I am to you? An idiot whose words don’t matter, who doesn’t know what she’s talking about when she tells you what to do?”

Frantically, Sirius shakes his head. “No, no, of course not!” he cries. Desperation rises within in him, turning his words to stammers in his mouth, seizing his lungs. “You’re n-not an idiot, you’re m-my m-mother – I – I just – “

“You just _what?_ ” she hisses. The pink spots in her cheeks have bloomed into roses, encompassing the high cheekbones and the soft skin underneath, flooding through her neck. She breathes heavily like a woman possessed. “You and your father, you’re just the same. You both treat me like a nuisance, thinking me dumb and pathetic – “

“I don’t,” he interrupts with a rapid shake of his head. “I don’t, I really don’t – “

“Always thinking that I’m overreacting when it’s _you_ who acts as if I’m expendable, like I’m a doll for you to turn to whenever it’s _convenient_ , like I’m a _trophy_ – “

“Mother – Mum, I – you’re hurting me, ow, you’re really _hurting me_ ,” he cries out as her nails dig into the soft skin of his wrist, talons that still drag him down toward her, twisting his arm. “Mum, _please_ – “

“Shut up.”

“But – Mother – “

“ _I said shut up!”_

Her hand releases his wrist, only to slam against his cheek – his head snaps to the right, his pleas cut short, and then there’s nothing but silence. For a moment, the world stops. There’s no pain, no sudden realisation that his mother just hit him, no anything. And then he blinks and all the blood rushes to his face with a painful sting and tears well up in his eyes.

His mother doesn’t speak for a long second, only kneels there and stares at the side of his face. When she does, it’s to softly command, “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again,” before she rises to her feet and leaves the room.

* * *

 

For the next month, Sirius is a perfect student at school. His best friend pleads with him endlessly –  pouting with his best set of puppy dog eyes so that he agrees to raid the teacher’s cupboard with him, scowling when he stubbornly refuses, even stops talking to him for an entire afternoon. But it’s no use. Even on a good day, Sirius can be notoriously stubborn and the memory of his mother’s palm on his cheek is enough to keep him in check. He squashes down every impulse to join James in creating another riot and focuses on being a Black.

He gets full marks on his spelling test, earns Star of the Week for his excellent behaviour, and takes both home to show his family. Regulus is simultaneously excited and envious of the shiny sticker on Sirius’ blazer, his nanny breaks out into a rare smile and tweaks his nose, and his father pats him on the head with absent-minded praise as he passes him on the way to his office.

Sirius’ mother appears in the doorway ahead, an elegant hand wrapped delicately around a half-empty glass of wine. Her eyes narrow in on her husband suspiciously.

“You smell cheap,” she spits when he brushes past her.

He pauses, smirks over his shoulder. “It was good money spent, I assure you.”

That night, he leaves on another business trip.

The next morning, there’s the red shadow of a hand emblazoned across Sirius’ cheek.

* * *

 

At eleven years old, Sirius Black is one of the most popular boys in school. It’s the product of unnaturally good genes in the looks department, the veneer of cocky charm he flashes with his half-smirk, his high marks in tests, and the additional cool factor that comes with being on an ice hockey team. He joined with James over the summer to find that it isn’t half-bad, though if one were to ask James they’d probably receive a twenty five page thesis on just how brilliant the sport is along with footnotes and references to back himself up.

(“It’s only been two months,” James informs a curious classmate one day, “but I would rather stab myself than not play it.”

Sirius only rolls his eyes. “Honestly, shut up.”)

School is an environment in which he _thrives_. It’s always been the case to some extent – he doubts any of his primary school teachers will forget his antics anytime soon – but secondary school amplifies that. He’s no longer a child, no matter how often the Year Elevens roll their eyes whenever he darts past one of them with a cheeky grin. He’s in his element, crafting the perfect image of himself to project to the world, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the changes that fly at him one after the other. He is Sirius Black: effortlessly cool, naturally popular and buried in money up to his neck. No one can dream of touching him.

At home, his mother can turn that dream into a reality with a sharp flick of her wrist and an angry hiss of her tongue.

(Reggie, small and solemn-faced, will beg him to stop misbehaving at school, insist that it’s easier if he just plays along, but that’s because he doesn’t know better. Sirius can’t begrudge him his naivety, not when it means that his brother’s cheeks flush pink only from excitement. Their mother doesn’t care whether Sirius is an angel or a little devil fresh from hell – she just wants a body willing to bear the brunt of her ire.)

At home, he’s not Sirius Black, that cheeky boy from Kensington who swaggers around like he’s the prince of the goddamn world. He’s rude and useless and a stain to a family name that’s already drenched in blood. He’s a waste of space, he’s a worthless brat, he’s his mother’s ruin. He’s a horrible, ill-mannered child and forbidden from influencing Regulus with the same bad blood.

Perhaps in another world, he might’ve let the insults bounce off him like bullets against an impenetrable shield. He might’ve pushed up the left sleeve of his jumper to stare down at the words scratched into his skin, might’ve fantasised about a perfect girl whose mouth wraps around them, turns them blacker than the night, blacker than his name. He might’ve lost himself in daydreams of the rest of their lives, ignoring the imprint of fingers on his wrist to trace the lettering on his forearm.

In another world, the words there are a promise of love.

In the one he lives in, they’re a shackle.

* * *

 

When they’re in Year Eight, they learn about the class system in Britain. Very few of the students are from disadvantaged backgrounds, all of them sons or daughters of doctors or managers or stockbrokers, so the topic is treated with some distant interest, most of them far more preoccupied with sneaking onto their phones.

“Dad created a bunch of hair products,” James says dismissively when someone asks him what his parents do, “and Mum’s business makes ready-made lunches. Nothing big, really.”

When the curious eyes turn to him, Sirius shrugs and says his dad’s a businessman too, though he’s not sure what it is he does. He’s probably involved in investment or something, he doesn’t really pay enough attention to be completely certain. Whatever it is, it pays well.

(He thinks of all the strange men in his house, the dark flecks on the cuffs of their suits, their polished shoes and their gaudy watches. The way they sometimes run smooth fingers through his hair or tuck notes of money into the pocket of his school shirt on their way past him. The disquieted feeling in his throat when they smile.

Whatever it is, it’s not legal.)

It doesn’t matter because no one really cares about how Sirius’ father spends his days – though there’s a burst of excitement when they realise he’s from old money, is probably richer than half the class combined. Just like no one cares about paying attention to the lesson until it’s announced that they’re watching a movie to see the historical class divide in action. Suddenly, everyone is transfixed by the SmartScreen, chatter settling down into quiet murmurs.

When Rose DeWitt-Bukater appears onscreen, James lets out a little gasp to his right. At the questioning quirk of Sirius’ right eyebrow, he defensively hisses, “What? She’s gorgeous!” and his voice cracks embarrassingly in the middle.

His other eyebrow raises to mirror its brother. Sirius analyses the leading actress, trying to locate and muster up the same awe that rounds his best friend’s eyes, only to turn up empty-handed. Aside from an impartial observation that yes, she is rather pretty, he doesn’t see what the excitement is about.

Minutes later, Jack Dawson’s face steals the screen to a collective giggle from a few of the girls. “He’s so good looking!” one of them whispers in adoration.

Mulciber gags exaggeratedly from the back of the classroom. When the rest of the boys burst into laughter, Sirius forces himself to do the same. He pushes away the funny feeling in his stomach that faintly suggests he agrees with her.

* * *

 

It’s a dull January morning when Remus Lupin walks into Sirius’ life. He’s taller than all of the boys in Year Nine, as thin as a rake and as quiet as a mouse, holding himself in a way that makes him look a lot smaller than he is. He doesn’t want the attention that comes with being the new boy and after a day, he gets his wish, dismissed to the centre of the classroom as old news.

Sirius takes one curious glance at him before he shrugs him off as nothing special.

Two weeks later, he’s proven wrong.

“Black!” barks Ms Merrythought as he throws open the classroom door and bursts into the room in a flurry of movement. He pauses halfway down the aisle to his seat expectantly. “What kind of time do you call this?”

He looks at the clock. “Twenty past nine.”

Somewhere behind him, James snorts with laughter.

Their English teacher is much less amused. “The school day starts at eight-forty. That means you’re forty minutes late. Care to explain why?”

“Not particularly.”

This time around, half the class laughs along with James. If possible, Merrythought’s face grows even stonier. “Watch your mouth and sit down before I give you a detention,” she warns and then dismisses him as she turns back to the whiteboard.

On his way to his seat, Sirius catches James’ eye from the other side of the classroom. His best mate grins and gives him a thumbs-up; the sight makes the sting of his mother’s nails on his right forearm fade away. She’s been in an awful mood ever since his father returned from his meeting with a bruise blooming at the base of his neck. Naturally, she took it upon herself to give Sirius a much less pleasant one as well.

He left the house in a bit of a rush after that, throwing stuff mindlessly into his backpack before he scarpered. Though he probably should’ve paid attention to what he was doing because now he’s in English with a periodic table and no pen. If Merrythought catches on, there’s no way he’ll escape without a detention and he can’t afford one today when there’s practice directly after school.

Sirius sighs. Glances at the girl next to him, watches with some irritation as she shoots him a suspicious look and then covers her work as if he’s about to copy it down word for word with a damn periodic table as a writing tool. Then sighs again.

There’s nothing else for it.

Darting a wary glance at Merrythought powering through a speech on _Romeo and Juliet_ , he leans forward and taps the shoulder of the boy in front of him. Remus Lupin turns around, tawny eyes wary as he blinks inquisitively at him. Sirius’ stomach clenches with something strange and unidentifiable, but he brushes it off and gathers his best smile, the one that hovers between sheepish and friendly.

“You don’t happen to have a pen I can borrow, do you?” he whispers.

The new boy’s left arm spasms. Blinking rapidly, he offers the blue one in his grasp, hand shaking slightly as Sirius plucks it gracefully from his fingers. “Keep it,” he murmurs.

No one has ever explained to him what it feels like to meet your soulmate. The way his arm jerks sideways to crash into the wall, elbow ringing painfully, the burn of his skin as the words imprinted there scorch black, the way everything seems to still for half a heartbeat – before he meets Remus Lupin’s eyes with his own, terrified and blown wide, face draining of blood rapidly.

Oh shit.

_Shit, shit, shit._

His mother’s going to murder him.

* * *

 

He has Science after English, all the way on the other side of the school, so he rushes out of class as quickly as he can, ignoring James’ indignant calls on the pretence that he doesn’t want to get into trouble again. By the time he catches up, James merely rolls his eyes and shoves him at the nearest pair of doors because he’s an immature prat and Sirius kicks out at his leg because he’s desperate to cling onto the idea that nothing about his life has changed.

But Remus Lupin is also in his Science class – as well as every other goddamn lesson this year, Spanish and all – and eventually casts a shadow over the threshold of the lab too. Their eyes meet just as James wrestles Sirius into a headlock and the taller boy throws him a searching look before turning to his seat. When he’s finally released, Sirius likes to think he’s only red because his circulation was cut off for a solid thirty seconds.

“Potter, get to your seat,” McGonagall commands as she sweeps into the classroom.

For the next hour, Sirius transforms himself into the most studious of students, immersing himself into a world of chemical reactions and everything that usually makes him want to stick pins in his eyes. Unlike James, he’s always been fonder of humanities and the arts, grimacing away from the technical in favour of the creative. But the alternative to concentrating in class is letting his mind wander in the direction of Remus Lupin and the very thought terrifies him. The other boy can stay where he is as far as Sirius is concerned.

Of course, like many things in his life, things don’t work out that way.

“Can we talk?” a quiet voice says, cornering him on his way to hand in his Maths homework. Two long legs step directly in his path, far enough to be a respectable distance and yet still much too close for comfort. Remus Lupin fiddles with the faded strap of his school bag as he waits for a reply.

“No.”

Lupin blinks. To his right, James digs his bony elbow into Sirius’ side, reprimanding, but the gesture only reminds him of how public this conversation is. He doesn’t – he _won’t_ have this talk out in the open in the middle of school, not when he hasn’t even had time to _digest_ what has flipping happened, not when he hasn’t come up with a proper excuse he can give. He refuses.

“I think we should,” Lupin says.

Sirius hates him. He hates him so goddamn much. It surprises him how fiercely it hits him, the rush of dislike for Remus freaking Lupin and his stupid, knowing eyes. He hates him.

“I don’t care what you think,” he hisses, gripping his homework so tightly it threatens to tear apart. “I don’t want to talk to you. Not now, not ever. So get out of my goddamn way.”

The thing about Remus Lupin is that he’s the type of boy it only takes one good glance at to sum up. Tall, shy, probably hides away in the library and reads books to escape the fear of never fitting into a new school. In his two weeks here, he hasn’t made any meaningful connections, preferring to stay quiet in the various corners of his classrooms. He’s probably the kind of boy to back away at the first sign of conflict.

Except he doesn’t.

Instead, he steps forward – one careful, measured step that places him squarely at the parameters of Sirius’ personal space – and says conversationally, “Well, we’ll have to talk eventually, won’t we? Might as well start now.”

And James – sweet, skinny, little James who prefers battering people on an ice rink than in the corridors of his school, who offered a toy car to Sirius in nursery and never looked back, who bleeds colour and love into Sirius’ life like he’s made for it – moves forward too, hand splayed across Lupin’s chest to keep him back.

“He said he doesn’t want to talk,” he says fiercely despite not knowing a thing, “so he’s not going to talk. Alright?”

Lupin meets Sirius’ eyes over James’ head. There’s an impossibly long moment of silence, of Sirius’ heart hammering furiously against the confines of his chest, of indescribable _fear_ – and then he steps back.

“You can’t ignore this forever,” he says softly.

He taps his left forearm once, twice, and then turns on his heels and swiftly walks away. Sirius watches him go, a sharp lump digging into his throat until James snaps him out of it with a smack of his arm.

“What the hell was that?” he demands. He glances between Lupin’s back and Sirius’ arm several times before he asks, “What did he mean by that?” He mimics the gesture.

Sirius shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies, trying to lace his words with a carelessness he can’t muster up. At James’ disbelieving look, he adds defensively, “Honest! He’s just weird.”

“I didn’t even know you spoke to him.”

“I don’t. That’s sort of the point really.”

But James is like a dog with a bone. “So why’s he after you then?” he challenges. He folds his arms across his chest to assume his best interrogatory look. “And why are you acting so weird about it? Like mate, I helped you out seeing as how you’re basically my brother, but you were really rude to him, you know. Especially considering you say you don’t know him.”

“I don’t know!” he exclaims in frustration. His homework rips a little as he clenches his fingers again. He flails wildly for an excuse, too frazzled to create an effortless lie. “Maybe he just wanted his pen back. I borrowed it off him in English, but he told me to keep it so that’s that, I’m not giving it back. Now can we just drop it for God’s sake?”

“You expect me to believe that the two of you are acting this way over a _pen_ – wait. He told you to what?”

“Keep it,” Sirius automatically supplies – and then freezes.

Shit.

_Shit._

He’s known James ever since he was three years old. Over ten years ago, they stood side by side in a chaotic playground, children screeching all around them as they pressed their exposed forearms against each other to compare the words on their skin in interest. He was there when it finally sank in what James’ soul words – _Call me sweetheart again and I’ll punch you in the throat_ – truly meant, there to burst into hysterical laughter and then to provide comfort when his best friend was brought to tears. They’ve told each other countless secrets, shared showers after ice hockey practice, know each other like the back of their own hands. They’re practically an extension of one another.

Which means that James _knows_ what two words are pressed into his skin.

Which means that he knows why Remus Lupin wants to talk to him so badly.

“Don’t say a word,” Sirius snarls. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not that – “

“Show me your arm then,” James says, already reaching forward.

Panic rises in his throat. Twisting his arm away from him, Sirius pushes roughly at his best friend, his damn homework scrunching up and tearing beyond recognition, but it’s no use – James has always been more agile than him, more forceful, and his enthusiasm for checking during an ice hockey match knows no bounds. He wrestles Sirius to the ground, yanks the sleeve of his school shirt up to reveal two gleaming obsidian words.

 _Keep it_ , Sirius’ body echoes.

James exhales sharply. “Holy sh – oh my God. _Oh my God._ You’ve met your soulmate. Bloody _hell_.”

“He’s not my soulmate,” Sirius hisses, pushing roughly at the other boy’s jaw to dislodge him. James merely shifts his legs into a more comfortable position, staring down at the black lettering in wonder. “Get the hell off me.”

“This is so _cool_ ,” he breathes wondrously. “Lupin’s your soulmate. He was _made_ for you.”

Something in Sirius snaps.

“No, he fucking isn’t! He’s not – he’s not my soulmate, he wasn’t made for me, he’s not – he’s not _anything_. He’s just some new kid who I couldn’t give less of a shit about, alright? Now get the _fuck_ off me, James, or I swear to God I am going to lose my shit.”

James scrabbles off him, eyes wide with worry. He lifts his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Hey, hey, what are you panicking about? There’s nothing to worry about, this is a good thing – “

“ _Good thing?”_ he chokes incredulously. He lets out a helpless, hysterical laugh. Oh, he’s _sure_ his mother and father will be positively ecstatic when they find out. God, he can practically feel his mother’s wrath already. “What about this is fucking good? I’m not – I’m not fucking _gay_ , alright? I’m not!”

“Sirius, there’s… nothing wrong with having a guy as your – “

“Don’t say it! Don’t fucking say it!”

His vision blurs suddenly. To his horror, there’s the splash of something cool on his cheeks – like a dam has burst, tears flood out of his eyes and cascade down to his chin, dripping onto his school tie. Furious, he wipes at them roughly, but they won’t stop fucking _coming_ and there’s an awful weight on his shoulders and chest and he can’t _breathe_ no matter how much he gasps and tries and someone’s probably going to find them in a minute or two and then everyone will be talking about how Sirius Black was crying in the Maths corridor at break and –

James forces his head down to his knees, rubbing circles on his back. From a distance, his voice calls out to Sirius to breathe, measuring each one by the second. He leans into Sirius’ side, gathering him into his warmth.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs softly in his ears. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

It feels like a lifetime has passed before Sirius can breathe again. Chest heaving, he wipes at his sticky cheeks once again.

“I’m not gay,” he insists one last time, helpless and desperate.

Mouth turned down, James pulls his head onto his shoulder. He sighs, one long exhale of air. “Okay,” he says in defeat. “You’re not gay.”

* * *

 

It is surprisingly easy to ignore Remus Lupin.

Sort of.

They’re not in the same circle of friends so there’s no reason for them to interact, no excuse the other boy can give to initiate conversation. The few times he tries, Sirius brushes him off, his usual bright disposition visibly souring until Lupin gets the message.

(It works a little _too_ well, at first. After one failed attempt in the middle of P.E, a boy named Goldstein – broad-shouldered, loud, a little too enthusiastic in his efforts to please Sirius and James that he hovers on the borders between endearing and embarrassing – spikes the volleyball so hard that it nearly knocks Lupin out.

Sirius tears into him, fury clouding all rational thought, until the poor kid is close to tears. A little startled, James explains it away as leftover anger from their hockey team’s loss the previous day, though he tosses him an ambiguous look when no one’s looking. Sirius ignores it, just like he continues to ignore Lupin, though from that day onwards, the other boy always finds himself on their team.)

His days are an endless rotation of school, ice hockey, dinner at James’ and then home in the evenings. There’s no time to think about Remus Lupin when he’s too busy skating lazily across the ice, James soaring past him, or strolling into detention with a shit-eating grin. He doesn’t belong in the crevices of his mind, not when it’s crammed with episodes of Brooklyn Nine Nine and quotes from _Romeo and Juliet_ and the constant monitoring of his mother’s volatile moods.

He doesn’t belong there, but he marks his place regardless.

It’s in the way Sirius keeps forgetting to bring his pens to English. In the way he flips open a book at home, his parents screaming at each other in the background, and briefly ponders whether Lupin has read it too. In the way his left arm calls to him in the shower, blaringly black, and the way he stops and studies it under a steady stream of water.

He rubs a thumb over the curl of the _t_ , watches it remains indelible against the pale white. It’s curious, isn’t it, how the world dictates that his life should centre around this one tattoo? All his life he’s been told he should look forward to the day he meets his soulmate, how everything will simply fall into place then. But if that was true, his father wouldn’t regularly fuck other women and his mother wouldn’t be trapped in the walls of this townhouse and he wouldn’t be the Black family heir, tied to a _boy_.

“I’m not gay,” Sirius says out loud. Underneath the cloak of the shower, it’s safe to word out the assurances. “I’m not gay.”

When he gets to school and sees Lupin pass through the gates, he tells himself he feels nothing.

* * *

 

Year Nine rapidly draws to an end.

Summer arrives in a sticky wave of humidity, plastering Sirius’ back with sweat and drying up his throat. He spends most of his time outside of his house, avoiding a father who isn’t there, a mother who lives at the bottom of a bottle of wine and a brother who stopped caring about him years ago. His life consists of crashing in James’ bed, pulling on his skates and battering the ice with a hockey stick, and grimacing at the wet shadows his fingers leave behind on the corners of his favourite books late at night.

Sometimes, he spares a thought for a tall boy with tawny eyes and sandy hair. He briefly wonders what the boy is doing at that moment, whether he’s relaxing on a nice holiday somewhere sunny or holed away in a library, an old book with its spine cracked open on his lap. He tries to picture him in something other than his school uniform, something that isn’t quite so put together, but the thought is alien, wanders into territories far too dangerous for comfort.

In truth, he thinks about Lupin more than he likes to admit.

He comes to him in flashes here and there.

His team wins a scrimmage, James nearly sobbing with victory, and Sirius wonders whether Lupin would be proud if he knew. His mother’s ring cuts into his cheek when he stumbles home too late for her liking and he asks himself what Lupin would do if he was in the situation. He has his first taste of alcohol and imagines what he might do if Lupin was there with him.

Would he run his hand through that soft hair, nails scrabbling for purchase until he wrapped his fingers around a few strands and _pulled?_ Watch Lupin’s head jerk back to expose his long neck, the prominent Adam’s apple that caught Sirius’ attention far too many times to ignore when he’s not sober begging to bitten? Would he force those awful eyes to close, the pads of his fingertips rough against Lupin’s eyelids, his mouth decidedly softer?

“I hate him, you know,” he slurs to James that night when they’ve finally stumbled home from the party at Shacklebolt’s. The next morning, they’ll discover that they weren’t nearly as subtle as they thought they were when James’ parents deliberately make their morning hell to teasingly punish them for their rebellion. “He’s such a prick.”

James groans into his pillow. “He sure fucking is.” A pause. And then: “Who is?”

“Lupin! He’s so – he’s so – _annoying_ and he looks at me like he knows something I don’t and I hate him because I don’t want a soulmate and he’s my soulmate and – and – he’s really pretty and sometimes I think I might want to kiss him, but I don’t because I’m a Black and I’m not gay and I hate him, I swear I do.”

It’s possible to want to kiss someone you’re not attracted to, right? He’s sure it is. Curiosity exists for a reason, after all.

“I want a soulmate.” James, to his utter lack of surprise, is no help at all. The other boy wraps an arm around his pillow and hugs it to his chest. “I want a girlfriend.”

“Me too,” Sirius agrees.

Life would be a lot easier that way.

* * *

 

James starts to date Mary Pierce a few weeks into Year Ten and they’re disgustingly in love. They hold hands between classes, go on dates in the park, take obnoxiously cute selfies together that are posted Instagram, easily gaining 150 likes apiece and making the rest of the year feel like shit about their own love lives. James is on Cloud Nine, bouncing through school with light steps that make the teachers smile to themselves.

Sirius is… torn.

Part of him, the more dominant side, is happy for his best friend. He sees the genuine joy that suffuses James as his relationship flourishes and feels nothing but warmth for it. There’s now a grand total of two healthy relationships he has witnessed in his life and they both include a family he holds dearer than his own.

But there’s a voice, a small one niggling away at the back of his mind, that casts doubts. It whispers about how excited James has always been about the prospect of his soulmate and how that’s easily been cast aside for Mary. Does that mean soulmates really don’t mean anything? If that’s the case, then why can’t he bring himself to move on from Lupin with another person?

He thinks about Lupin a lot nowadays especially now that the other boy has returned to school taller than ever. There’s a healthy tan to his skin and his shoulders have broadened slightly, turning him from lanky to lean. He carries himself with that same quiet air as before, except now there’s almost a gentlemanly feel to him like he’s from the Old South, soft-spoken and dewy-eyed.

He’s more affected by the change than he cares to admit.

“You should talk to him, you know,” James says one day when he’s managed to drag himself away from Mary for long enough to notice where Sirius is staring during lunch. The words startle Sirius out of his reverie. “He’s a nice person.”

“Whatever,” he mutters, turning his focus to the mixed vegetables on his plate. They roll around aimlessly, moved every which way by the prongs of his fork. “I don’t care.”

“Sure you do,” James says easily. “You know talking to him won’t hurt, right? No one said soulmates have to be romantically bonded.”

“I never said they did,” he says defensively. “Just – stop talking and go back to your girlfriend.”

He grins, that stupid wide grin of his that never fails to charm its target. “Aw, you sound jealous.”

“Fuck off.”

James chooses to nick a sweetcorn off Sirius’ plate instead. The rest of lunch devolves into the two furiously bickering over their food, smacking away each other’s hands and calling each other every name under the sun until one of the teachers on duty leans over to scold them for disrupting the ambience of the canteen. They shrug, offer grins to the nearby Year Sevens as an apology – the group of ten turn red instantly, looking away and chattering nervously amongst themselves, voices high with youth – and leave all conversation about soulmates in the dust.

The seed has been planted, however. Which is probably what urges Sirius to follow Lupin to the school library after the bell rings one day.

“Can I help you?” the boy asks when Sirius settles in the seat opposite him. He raises one thin eyebrow over the edge of his book, the movement sharp and oddly intimidating.

Sirius isn’t sure whether to raise his hackles or flush red from embarrassment. He settles for an awkward shrug instead. His eyes land on the title of the book in Lupin’s hand.

“Nice book you’re reading,” he finally manages. “I read it a couple of years ago too. It’s really good.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. “Yeah,” Lupin says at last. “It is. This is my second time reading the series.”

“I don’t blame you,” he says. Sweat pools in his palms; he resists the urge to wipe them down on his school trousers. “ _Artemis Fowl_ is really good. Inventive, you know.” Fuck, this is so awkward. But at least Lupin is playing along, right?

He hums in agreement. His fingers, long and thin, turn the page over even as he maintains steady eye contact with Sirius. He cocks his head to the side. “Have you finally chosen to speak to me then?”

Scratch that. _Now_ it’s awkward.

“Um.” Red explodes across Sirius’ face, radiating heat. He shifts in his seat, stuffs his hands underneath his thighs so he can rock on the back of them. “I just – I’m not gay, you know.”

Lupin blinks. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats before adding, “I mean, our soul words probably disagree – “ He raises his clothed arm, drawing Sirius’ eyes there. “ – but who am I to tell you how to feel? It’s your life.”

He licks his lips. Somehow, he doesn’t think Lupin understands the gravity of what he’s saying. “What I mean is… I’m not interested in a romantic relationship with you. So if we give this thing a chance, it can’t – be like… that.”

There’s a soft snort of laughter from the other boy. A single finger trapped between the pages of the book to mark his page, he brings it down so he can properly unleash an unimpressed look. “Who said _I_ was looking for one myself?”

“I – you’re not gay?”

“No, I am,” Lupin says before he eyes him guardedly. His voice is cold. “Is that a problem with you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

There’s a prolonged moment of silence. Then Sirius, teeth worrying away at his lower lip in a habit his mother forced him to break when he was six, asks slowly, “Well, if you’re gay and we’re… you know… why wouldn’t you be looking for a romantic relationship? Given that we’re…” He gestures helplessly between the two of them.

“Soulmates?” he supplies, taking pity on him. At Sirius’ uncomfortable nod, he rolls his eyes. “Well, you haven’t exactly given me a reason to want to date you. You’re rude and loud and one of those guys who thinks he runs the school.”

“What? No, I’m not!”

“Er. Yes. You really are.”

“When have I _ever_ been rude?” he splutters indignantly, embarrassment forgotten in his shock. At the answering disbelief, he amends, “Okay, fine, I was a little rude to you at the start, but I had reasons for that, okay? I’m not usually like that. I’m actually a really nice person.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I am!”

“I believe you,” he says in a tone that distinctly suggests the opposite.

“It doesn’t sound like you do.”

Lupin grins. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

His immediate reaction is to huff and scowl, arms folded across his chest in the very picture of a petulant spoiled brat, a reaction he indulges in regularly. The sight only seems to amuse Lupin further, judging by the way his grin spreads, left corner raised higher than the right in an odd quirk that tugs gently on Sirius’ heartstrings.

It is a snapshot of time that he will later look back on – the warm October sunlight softening the fragile features of Lupin’s face, the way his tie sits lopsided under the collar of his shirt, the sharp point of his incisors as he smiles – and remember as the moment that everything begins to change. This moment, here in a quiet school library, when everything else in the world seems a galaxy away.

“I’m not sure I like you very much,” Sirius informs him.

Lupin shrugs. “I’m not sure I like you either,” he says.

Somehow, the words feel like a kiss.

* * *

 

Opening up to Lupin is frighteningly easy.

Granted, the early days are awkward. Sirius, brash and obnoxious, doesn’t immediately gel with someone so subtle and understated. Silences between them are often, long and tense with unsaid words, air heavy with expectation. Sometimes, he’ll say or do something unthinkingly that’ll have the other boy scrunch his nose up and mutter sarcastically about how the world doesn’t fall at Sirius’ goddamn feet and he should stop expecting it to. Other times, Lupin will shut him out and receive an aggravated interrogation for it.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Sirius grits out multiple times, “and so should you.”

Half the time, Lupin swallows his acidic reply and offers him a Kit-Kat instead, pink spots of embarrassment high on his cheeks. But he is just as likely to roll his eyes and taunt, “Who was it that ignored me for eight months again?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, more half-hearted than anything because he can’t really argue against that. “I’ve already apologised half a hundred times. Now hurry up and give me a Kit-Kat, I’m starving.”

“Fuck off and buy your own,” comes the automatic retort even as a red packet is slapped into his waiting palm.

Once they ease into it properly, however, things get a lot better.

Their first real breakthrough happens when Sirius brings along his copy of _The Northern Lights_ to one of their library meet-ups. As soon as Lupin notices it, his entire face just about lights up, constellations scattered in the butterscotch brown of his eyes, body leaning across the table to get a better look. His voice is rough with excitement, fondly recalling how _obsessed_ he was with the series as a child, and he smells nice. Sharp and fresh.

From there on, things take a life of their own. They uncover a shared love for horror movies which they acknowledge with a trip to the cinema alongside James and Mary, and a mutual distaste for anything that is taught in McGonagall’s classroom. They’re both ridiculously competitive at Temple Run, thighs pressed against each other as they furrow their eyebrows at the wide screen of Sirius’ phone, sat on a bench under the shelter at school. They’re also lovers of the rain which he discovers one day when they leave the school, Sirius heading directly to practice, only to be drenched the second they push through the doors.

“Jesus fuck,” Sirius groans in a manner he’s sure his (technically) Catholic mother would smack him senseless for. “I forgot my umbrella today.”

Lupin is much less concerned. “I love the rain,” he says mildly, tipping his head back to stare up at the dull, grey sky. His long eyelashes brush the tops of his cheeks gently, dark with water as he breathes it all in.

Suddenly, he transforms, letting out a loud whoop as he plunges forward into the thick of it, arms spread wide. Sirius watches, wide-eyed, as he runs towards the gate, calls for him to follow with a smirk thrown over his shoulder, and before he knows it, he’s giving chase. The two hurtle along the tarmac, rain hammering down from above so furiously that he can barely see two feet ahead of him.

Once they pass through the gates, Lupin lets out another yell and tips his head all the way back, exposing a long pale throat. Laughter tumbles from his mouth, high and careless in a way he rarely is, and joins the cacophony of the rain. He spins around once, twice, before stumbling into Sirius’ side like he’s drunk. Automatically, his hands shoot out to steady the delirious boy.

Lupin chuckles, his cold fingers finding purchase on the edges of Sirius’ elbows. He ducks his head, peeks up through his eyelashes with a grin. “Wasn’t that fun?” he asks breathlessly.

“You’re mad,” he says with a laugh of his own. “But yeah, it was.”

Still a little winded from their sudden sprint, the two stay still for another minute, hands gentle on each other’s bodies. The weather is unreasonably cold, biting at the tips of Sirius’ ears with an incessant hunger, but he feels oddly warm. The sight of Lupin with his rain-splattered shirt and soft brown eyes and the heat of his barely audible breaths against Sirius’ jaw, the way he smells crisp against the heaviness of the rain –

It’s too good to let go of just yet.

At last, Remus stands back. “You should probably get to practice. If I have to come and watch your next match, I expect you to be in top shape.”

“I’m always in top shape,” Sirius says with an arrogance that feels too superficial for the moment.

Remus cocks his head to the side. “Prove it,” he challenges with a soft smile and then turns to head home.

* * *

 

Sirius isn’t sure when his relationship with Regulus went to shit.

It’s not like what happened with his mother. There is no dramatic moment, no definite event that he can look back on and pinpoint as the day their dynamic changed irreversibly. It happened slowly. Regulus’ fear for his brother’s punishments slowly ebbed into irritation that he acted up at all; his tears when their mother insisted on keeping them apart at home turned into indifference; his poorly concealed awe at Sirius’ courage to misbehave, whether it was with cocky retorts or refusing to abandon James as a friend, morphed into the same distaste his parents share.

The only thing that holds them together is that they have the same blood.

Their blood is the reason that Regulus tells his mother that Sirius just can’t be helped when she goes on yet another tirade about how crude his love for ice hockey is and to let this fight die. It’s the reason he will toss him a pack of iced peas on his way to his room after their mother has screamed herself hoarse and unleashed her fury on Sirius for whatever she’s chosen to let offend her that day.

“She has a point, you know,” Regulus says one night from where he hovers in the doorway. There’s a pack of frozen vegetables in his left hand that he tosses up in the air over and over again. Minutes earlier, he stood there and silently watched as their mother smacked Sirius so hard he reeled back into the mantelpiece. “You just refuse to listen.”

There’s a spot of blinding pain on the right side of his head. Sirius refuses to give his brother the satisfaction of watching him rub at it. “I’ve gone twelve years as James’ friend. One smack won’t make me stop now.” He idly wonders how many smacks have tallied up over the years.

“You can make more friends,” Regulus says. “Better ones.”

“Mother hates James because his mum’s from Korea. I’m not going to stop being his friend because the woman who birthed me just so happens to be a racist bitch.”

The words cause a vein in Regulus’ temple to throb. “She’s our mother,” he says as calmly as he can. “You ought to respect her more.”

“I’ll give her respect when she fucking _earns_ – “

“And besides,” he continues like Sirius isn’t speaking, “Potter isn’t the only unsavoury friend you have. That Lupin kid is a problem too.”

Sirius stills. A rush of dislike wells up in him, crashing against every fibre of his being. How _dare_ he? The black lettering hidden underneath his jumper burns with protectiveness, urging him to lash out. He barely contains the instinct, fists clenched, nails digging crescents into his palms.

“And just what,” he spits, layering on the venom so thick that his words drown in it, “is so _unsavoury_ about Remus?”

Regulus blinks. “Well, he’s poor,” he says like it’s obvious. Which, considering Sirius has been to his house and seen it for himself, really isn’t. The Lupins don’t come within an inch of the Blacks, but they’re still considerably richer than the average Joe on the streets. At his brother’s obvious confusion, Regulus raises an eyebrow. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

He smirks. “Oh God, you really don’t _?_ It’s not that hard to find out if you try. Took me less than a week actually. Your friend’s dad’s business failed last year and the family had to be taken in by Lupin’s uncle. If not for him, they’d probably be living on the street.”

“And what?” he snaps. He supposes he should be more surprised that Regulus investigated Remus once he noticed Sirius took a liking to him, but he’s not. It’s typical Black behaviour really, one of their specialties. He’s surprised they haven’t realised who Remus really is to him. “How the fuck does that affect me?”

“You’re a Black. We don’t stay with riff-raff like that.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” Sirius snarls.

This time, when his brother tosses the frozen vegetables out of his hand, they fly through the air in a perfect arch, colliding with Sirius’ shoulder roughly. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even reach out to pick them up. His eyes remain trained on Regulus as he indulges in one last smirk.

“You know I’m right,” he says before he slips out of the room.

* * *

 

He doesn’t mention what Regulus revealed. It doesn’t surprise him that Remus doesn’t bring it up himself seeing as how Sirius has more money than should be legal. One thing Remus has always been is proud, unflinchingly so, and the thought of seeming beneath someone else, no matter who Sirius might be to him, is likely what keeps him away from the topic.

At least until one afternoon when they’ve popped into the convenience store near school for ice pops – despite the fact that February has only just come out of its slumber, the days still overcast and echoing winter’s chill – that Remus has paid for.

They’re sat on the curb outside the gates when he pulls his one out of his mouth and says conversationally, “My dad works at a shop, you know.”

Sirius glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. Remus faces away from him, dark eyebrows drawn together, the tip of a pink tongue tracing the taste of cola on his bottom lip. If not for the tense set of his narrow shoulders, he might even pass off as relaxed.

“Oh?” Sirius says, just as casual.

“Yep.” His hands, large with long fingers, idly twirl the ice pop around. “It’s funny. One second, he was the owner of a pretty successful business; the next, we had nothing. My uncle took us in without asking many questions and here we are. Me at a school full of people who never have to worry about their next meals and my dad working at a supermarket until someplace better finally accepts him.”

Discomfort creeps along Sirius’ skin. Well-aware that he is one of those people who never have to worry about his next meal, he hesitantly bites his lip. “I’m, uh – I’m sorry – “

“Why?” Remus snorts. At last, he turns to face him, knobby knees knocking against Sirius’. A shock of heat spreads from the point of contact. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Well. Yeah, I know, but – still. I’m sorry you’ve gone through that.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he says dismissively. “There are people who’ve suffered much worse.”

“That still doesn’t invalidate your struggles.”

Remus smiles, the curve of his mouth slight. “No,” he agrees. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

* * *

 

Sirius falls in love with him over the course of a year.

It happens between the pages of various books – the gold paperback of _The Song of Achilles_ , the tea-stained words of _The Hobbit_ , the well-worn copies of _Of Mice and Men_ that they swear they will never again pick up once they’ve finally sat their English Literature exams. It swims lazily in the dark half-moon at the bottom of the cheap, corrugated cardboard of Remus’ coffee cups. It lingers in the leisurely pace of his drawl, the soft sighs and the gentle rise of his voice.

It happens during dreary afternoons at James’ house, the three of them surrounded by folders and textbooks, yawning their way through another round of studying.

(One day, Sirius looks up to see his other half slumped at the foot of the bed, blearily rubbing his face as he sketches a diagram with his free hand. There’s a rush of fondness that passes through him, a small tug at his heartstrings, and then James’ foot accidentally collides with his shin and he forgets it in favour of tackling his best mate to the ground.)

It happens when Remus finally turns up to one of his matches, burgundy scarf looped around his neck and a half-hearted sign that reads _BLACK FOR THE WIN_ on A3 card. He sits next to a beaming Mary, who cheers every damn time James passes her, and quietly analyses the game as it unfolds. He doesn’t say much afterwards, only congratulates Sirius’ team for the win, but the sight of him is welcome regardless.

(The next time he comes to support, it’s with an armful of actual knowledge and a plethora of curses whenever the opposition even _breathes_ near the puck.)

It happens in school in between the aisles of the library and across the rows of desks in their classes. Love hides in the perfectly ironed white shirt of Remus’, the way he tsks under his breath and wordlessly fixes Sirius’ collar in the morning. It’s served with their lacklustre lunches, the watered-down juices and the limp lettuce in the salad. It’s in the way Remus’ legs seem to go on for miles when he reveals them in P.E, baggy shorts loose on his waist as he chases after the football.

“Never have I hated anything more than running,” he declares through ragged gasps one day.

James stretches his legs out idly, sweat pooling at the roots of his dark hair. “Cheer up, Remy boy. It’s only the bleep test.”

The look he receives can cut glass.

There are moments in the summer holidays too where love creeps up on Sirius like the vines of a Virginia creeper. Moments when they’re giggling over 99p ice creams from the local van, hands sticky and t-shirts plastered to their backs, soul words flashing black in the sunlight. Moments when they’re playing video games in Remus’ bedroom, Sirius sprawled across the floor and the other boy collapsed on the duvet, too tired to shout as they lose horribly. Moments when his mother is drinking herself into an early grave and he’s stretched out on his bed, a window cracked open to let in a non-existent breeze, and Sirius is grinning down at his phone, thumbs flying across the screen as they send texts back and forth.

Halloween is just around the corner when Sirius realises he’s hopelessly in love with Remus Lupin.

The thought is _terrifying_. He’s a Black, the one set to inherit everything his mother and father own, and even a soulmate won’t convince his parents that he’s not defunct, that he’s not intrinsically _wrong_ somehow. He can imagine their reactions already – his mother flying into a fit, his father calmly lighting a a cigarette as he informs Sirius that he will cut off all contact with Remus immediately. He pictures the way Regulus will smirk or the cackle of his cousin Bella when she inevitably finds out or the way everyone in school will point and grin.

 _There’s Sirius Black,_ they’ll say. _The one who likes it up the arse. Remember when he thought he ruled the world?_

He’s in love with Remus Lupin.

The thought makes him happier than it probably should.

* * *

 

“When does James get out of detention then?” Remus asks, fingertips trailing along the spines of an entire shelf of books.

He’s grown even more recently, leaving Sirius far behind in the dust. It is a fact that simultaneously annoys the fuck out of him and appeals to the (admittedly loud) voice in his head that relishes in the height difference. Hugging him would probably be the shit. His head will fit into the crook of Remus’ neck perfectly, arms circling around him to link at the back, the sharp point of Remus’ chin resting delicately on the top of his head.

Belatedly, Sirius realises he’s been asked a question. “Er – in an hour. Well, fifty minutes now. But you know what I mean.”

“I can’t believe he ripped Mulciber’s jumper in half,” he says in awe, pausing by an interesting section. Tilting his head to examine the flaking gold script on the side of one book, he adds, “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“Well, Mulciber did take the piss out of Mary’s weight until she cried.”

“Still. I never knew James could change so fast.”

Half the school shares the same sentiment if the chatter this lunch is anything to go by. Ever since he stepped foot on these grounds four years earlier, James’ reputation has preceded him, overflowing with anecdotes about his tongue-in-cheek humour, unbelievably fervent passion for anything related to ice hockey, and his tendency to charm the socks off any person in a position of power. He’s the sweetheart of their year, all broad smiles and boyish charisma.

If anyone rules the school, it’s fifteen year old James Potter.

Probably because he doesn’t go about tackling people in the middle of the canteen on a regular basis.

“I did,” Sirius says with a shrug, part of the one percent of the population who isn’t so alarmed by the sudden fight. “Have you _seen_ him on the ice? I’ve never seen so much rage in my life.”

Remus snickers. “Well shit, you’re right.”

Nothing compares to James Potter when he’s pulled on his skates and slammed the cage of his helmet shut, skinny shoulders wider than a mile under the weight of his padding. Ever since he stumbled across a televised ice hockey match when they were eleven, his love for it has known no bounds. Where Sirius indulges in it to pass the time, James genuinely lives for the sport. As soon as he’s on the ice, he transforms entirely.

Needless to say, Sirius has witnessed his best friend scream unintelligibly and slam his shoulders into other people far too many times to be fazed by it.

“Is Mary alright?” he asks Remus since he was the last to talk to the distraught girl. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so upset before.”

“She’s okay. Mostly just shocked, I think. You know how Mulciber is, he can be really cruel sometimes. And I don’t think she expected James to react so strongly when he found out.”

“Well, of course he would, it’s James. He’ll do anything for the people he cares about.”

Remus hums in acknowledgement. Wriggling a book out of its place to study its blurb, he asks teasingly, “Would you do the same for me?” From the way he doesn’t bother to look at him, it’s clear that he doesn’t expect an answer, but he gets one anyway.

“Of course, I would,” Sirius says much more fiercely than he intends.

The tone startles the other boy, calling for his attention. The playful humour that hovers at the corners of Remus’ mouth slips away into something new, something softer. There’s a wistfulness about the twist of his lips.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

A painful lump materialises in Sirius’ throat. It sucks in all the moisture, leaving his mouth drier than the Sahara in spring; his tongue darts out, runs along the curve of his lips as if to help. Gone is the easy atmosphere from before – the still library air has been conquered by a sudden spike in tension, almost oppressing with how heavy it lies on his shoulders. Wordlessly, he nods.

“I care about you,” he whispers. It sounds like a confession to his ears. “More than I ever thought I could. It scares me shitless, but it is what it is.”

A metre away from him, Remus is poised like a doll that’s been wound up tightly, diligently waiting for his cue to move. He sucks in a barely audible breath. “Don’t.” The word is a shaky warning, a desperate plea. “Please.”

“I…”

“ _Sirius_.”

His voice is a weak imitation of the quiet confidence he usually holds. Perhaps it is this that steels Sirius’ resolve because his jaw sets, fists clenched tight and he insists, “It’s true. I care about you more than I ever thought was possible and everything about it is _terrifying_ but also – right. Like I’m supposed to be feeling this way.”

“Sirius,” Remus says helplessly. His limbs are still set in that awful, awkward way like he doesn’t know how to use them anymore. “It’s been a year. A _year._ And we’ve built a good thing in that year so don’t – don’t shake things up if you’re not – “

“What, do you not feel the same? Because if that’s the truth and you don’t, then I’ll stop right now, but – “

“Of course, I do. You _know_ I do, you know I have for a long time – “

He hasn’t. Known for a long time, that is. All these months, he’s been lost so far in his own head, swept away in a current of panic and fear and _exhilaration_ , too far from shore to even consider that Remus might be there beside him. It isn’t until this moment, here in a stuffy school library that they frequent after hours like a couple of absolute geeks, that it’s even occurred to him that his feelings might be reciprocated.

“Then why not?” He’s begging. There’s a whine to his words, embarrassingly high, and his hands reach out to brush against his soulmate’s and he’s sure his mother is furious somewhere in the depths of their house at Grimmauld Place, but he can’t care less. “Why can’t we shake it up?”

“ _Because!_ Because. I like what we have, I don’t want to jeopardise it. You’re my best friend, Sirius. I don’t want to give this a go and then have you turn out to resent it because it’s too much for us to handle. I’d rather – I’d rather die than let that happen.”

“It won’t happen.”

“How do you know that?”

“It won’t.”

He won’t let it. He won’t.

As his fingers slip into the spaces between Remus’, he realises that they’re shaking – both of them, that is, trembling against the turn of the tide. The lump in his throat is sharper now, digging in with a new threat, but he can’t hold back the sudden strength he’s suddenly discovered in himself. Tugging the taller boy closer, he begins to rub soothing circles on the back of Remus’ hands. The skin there is thin and soft, a stark contrast to his own calloused palms. That’s what he gets for rough-housing so much as a child, he supposes.

“Hey,” he says softly, sounding a lot calmer than he feels. A voice in the back of his mind screams with disbelief at what he’s doing, what he’s admitting – the words on his left arm smothers it, drowns it out. “I care about you a lot, you know.”

Remus swallows. “I… care about you a lot too,” he admits.

His teeth dig into his lip uncertainly. The movement draws Sirius’ attention, makes him realise just how pink and delicate they are, how much thought he’s given them over the past year in between daydreams he denies and humiliating wet dreams he ignores as if they never happened. He can’t even pretend like he’s not staring.

He’s not quite sure how it happens, but suddenly, they’re kissing.

The sensation is – foreign. Though he’s sure the entire school believes otherwise, he’s never kissed anyone whether boy or girl, never gave in to the urge to press his lips against another pair, not when Remus Lupin has been hanging around with a claim to Sirius on his wrist. But the sensation also feels right, like a divine being crafted him specifically to fit against the curves and dips of Remus’ mouth, the pressure of the action settling a turbulence in him that’s raged for two years.

They kiss tentatively, curious to explore yet hesitant to take it too far. If they tremble, it’s not because they’re terrified (though they are), but because they’ve held themselves back for so long.

Sirius pulls away, rests his forehead against Remus’. His eyes flutter open in time to see bronze eyelashes slowly rise before butterscotch brown smiles back at him. A glance down at Remus’ mouth reveals flush lips that are slick with spit.

“That was nice,” he breathes.

Remus nods. Smiles lazily. “Yeah. It was.”

* * *

 

Being in love with Remus is a lot easier than falling in love with him.

Falling in love was a battle – his stubborn refusal as treacherous as the Himalayas, his reluctance the song of a sword as it swung through the air, their soul words a rope around his wrists that forcibly tugged him along like a prisoner – but _being_ in love? It’s like sucking in air alongside every pump of his heart, filtering in what he needs and exhaling what he doesn’t. It’s thoughtless, something that comes to Sirius instinctively.

He loves Remus in the darkness of his bedroom, his phone shining white as he squints into the camera, wishing he could reach through to grab hold of the boy on the other side. He loves him in the hustle and bustle of the school hallways, their fingers brushing lightly as they walk to class, stumbling and jeering with the rest of the Year Elevens. He loves him on a bench in the park, red leaves falling like delicate drops of rain, legs pressed against each other.

He loves him at matches, Remus screaming colourful curses as Sirius smacks the puck with the flat of his stick.

He loves him in Remus’ kitchen, the wall firm against his back, his hands ghosting against a faded t-shirt, tasting chocolate on the other boy’s tongue.

He loves him over colourful mindmaps, coffee on his breath and exhaustion in the bruised skin under his eyes, half-heartedly trudging through another hour of revision.

White skies weep snowflakes and Sirius loves Remus Lupin. His mother’s nails scrape against his neck as she pulls him towards her furious face, red as a blood moon and manic like a madman, and Sirius loves Remus Lupin. Fireworks colour the sky red, green, gold as a new year begins; his steady hand traces his name in the frigid winter air with a sparkler and he loves Remus Lupin.

(He’s still terrified by it, of course. Sometimes, he tosses in his bed at night, staring at the plain ceiling above, wondering why he’s risking everything like this. Wondering when his father will discover the truth – because his father _always_ discovers the truth, no matter which continent he’s stolen away to that month – and how his mother will respond in her rage and whether Regulus will toss him an ice pack afterwards or not.

The next day, he comes to school and sees Remus smile at him, the curve of his lips small and intimate and _fond_ , and he remembers why.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to shoot me any questions on my [tumblr](elixirsoflife.tumblr.com) <3


	2. they say that the world was built for two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home is where the heart is (and the words on my arm point mine to you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cr. for chapter title: video games - lana del rey
> 
> warning: includes homophobic language. also sirius cries a lot

_"I wasn't expecting you_  
_Like a punch that knocks the wind out_  
_I think you're changin' everything_  
_'Cause I'm about to let you in now."_

_-_ dagny: that feeling when

 

Sirius catches a glimpse of his mother’s tattoo when she pulls her hand back to strike him. Her skin, once creamy and smooth, seems worn somehow, paper-thin and deteriorating, her veins an icy blue map of madness close to the surface. Printed on the forearm in neat English are the words: _It’s a pleasure to meet you, Walburga_. Somewhere on a plane in the sky, his father’s arm replies, _The pleasure is all mine._

Amusing isn’t it, how polite their shackles are?

He barely has time to think it before the drawing room echoes with the sound of skin against skin. As always, there’s a brief heartbeat of nothing before blood rushes to fill the site. His cheek throbs – somewhere beyond the metallic taste on his tongue, he notes how ridiculous this entire affair is.

He’s sixteen years old. Each week, he spends an unnecessary amount of time on an ice rink for a sport he’ll abandon in a couple of years’ time, arms toned from the push and pull of his hockey stick, body indifferent to the shock of a grown boy slamming into him. He’s no stranger to brutality – and yet his mother manages to shut him up with just one flick of her wrist. In the past, he’s had some twenty boys pile onto him in a fit of euphoria. But nothing dispels the sting and shame of his mother’s fury.

How pathetic.

“Get out of this room,” his mother hisses.

He wishes he had the strength to say something back. Nothing particularly venomous, just something to let her know she doesn’t control him. But the sad fact is that she _does_ control him, always has, and he’ll always be the four year old boy too afraid to argue with the empress of this land.

So he picks himself up and gets out of the room.

Regulus is at the foot of the stairs when he enters the hallway, ears pricked for trouble. There’s nothing in his hands yet, he’s had no time to steal away to the kitchen, so he shoves them into his pockets, pivoting to follow his brother as he shoves past.

“Why do you antagonise her?” he whispers, irritation thick in his voice. “You know how it’s going to turn out in the end.”

Sirius chuckles, the sound bitter against the miserable walls of the house. “Haven’t you realised yet? I could be a bloody saint and she’d still find a reason to – “ He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Just piss off, Regulus. I can’t be arsed dealing with you too.”

“There are things going on that you don’t realise – “

He shakes his younger brother’s hand off his arm roughly. “I don’t care,” he spits and then storms up the stairs to his room.

There are always things going on that he doesn’t know about. It’s part and parcel of being a Black: the hushed whispers whenever his father’s back, the wary looks the cook and the housekeeping exchange as they tiptoe along the rooms, the endless rotation of men in the study.

This time around, his father was so stressed he seemed to sprout grey hairs by the second, his usual calm drawl shaking with barely controlled rage or muttering about a man named Tom. It culminated with another argument between his parents and now his father’s gone, off on a plane to Chicago or Bucharest or Rio.

None of that changes the fact that his mother hates him.

None of that makes the situation better.

Evidently, Regulus begs to disagree. When tapping on Sirius’ door doesn’t work, he tries to corner him in school the next day when he’s slipped out of the canteen to pop to the toilet. The second Sirius unlocks the toilet door, he’s greeted with the sight of his brother leaning against the opposite wall, uniform immaculate and aristocratic features determined.

“Piss off,” Sirius says flatly.

“Not until you listen,” he insists, following him towards the canteen like a second shadow. A small hand slips to his right wrist and then pulls him around. “Look, I know that Mother doesn’t – treat you right – “

His jaw tightens. Shooting a guarded look around, he hisses, “Shut up. Just fucking _shut up_ , alright? We’re not having this conversation. Not here.”

“Well, if not here, then where?” he shoots back. “You won’t listen to me at home.”

“Take the fucking hint then.”

“Yesterday,” Regulus says like Sirius hasn’t spoken, like he isn’t twisting his wrist out of his annoyingly firm grip, “something big happened. Bigger than usual, alright? Things have already been tense this past week, something went wrong with a business deal, Bella’s _furious_ about it – but that’s not what’s important – “

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t _care_ ,” Sirius growls.

Because he really doesn’t, not in the corridors of this school, the place that breathed life into him in a way his mother never did. Once he’s out of the oppressive weight of 12 Grimmauld Place, he leaves all of that _bullshit_ behind. Here he is sixteen year old Sirius: charismatic troublemaker, decent right wing and high achiever. Being the Black heir does not fall under his list of achievements.

Desperate to grab his attention, Regulus blurts, “He brought someone home.” Sirius pauses. “A woman. Took her into his study yesterday and – yeah. He didn’t even care that Mum was still in the house.”

He doesn’t even know how to react. Words escape him, distant entities that float away as time stretches on. He’s always _known_ , of course – everyone vaguely associated with them knows the truth – but it’s one thing to see the faint imprints of magenta lipstick on his dad’s neck and quite another for the transgression to occur in their own house. No wonder his mother’s rage was so palpable yesterday.

Somewhere in the distance, the school bell trills.

He doesn’t know how to react, but thankfully he doesn’t need to. Within seconds, a wave of students hits them, filtering out of the canteen in a current of chatter and automatically parting around the two brothers.

“There you are, you little shit,” exclaims the exuberant voice of James Potter as he swats at Sirius’ head. The sombre air hits him a second later just before Remus does in reprimand, the latter’s shoulder weighed down by both his and Sirius’ bags. “Is everything alright?”

Sirius doesn’t move his eyes from his brother’s. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Just got caught up.”

“Alright,” he says, easily accepting the excuse. “Well, we’d better head to Science or I swear McG is going to throw a Bunsen burner at us again – “

“She didn’t even throw it the first time,” Remus says exasperatedly.

“She did too! I saw the evil glint in her eye, I did!”

As Remus groans that the glint was literally just the reflection of the overhead lights, Regulus tightens his fingers around Sirius’ wrist. “He always does this to her,” he says quietly so that only the two of them can hear. “It’s ruining her.”

He doesn’t doubt it. What their parents have is toxic, a poisonous noose of neat black lettering and years of hatred. Their father casts their mother aside like rubbish, their mother pushes back in a frenzy, only to have him pull away – and then comes the drink and the broken ornaments and two polished shoes turning up beside the door a month later. On and on it goes, an endless carousel ride.

Sirius wants off.

Tearing away, he hisses, “I – don’t – _care_.”

Beside him, his friends fall silent.

“She’s your mother,” Regulus says angrily, a tendon in his neck pulsing dangerously. His careful control rapidly slips away. “Have some respect – “

“Hey, hey,” Remus interrupts calmly, a hand coming out to ward him away as he steps forward threateningly. “Back off, alright?”

“Stay out of this, Lupin,” he barks. “This doesn’t concern the likes of you.”

“Don’t talk to Remus that way,” Sirius snaps. A protective instinct threatens to blind him, red hot and spitting fire. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

A cold laugh tumbles from his brother’s mouth. Voice rising, he taunts, “Oh, of course, I forgot. Your own _mother_ means nothing to you, but Lupin here means the world. Well, maybe if you stopped snogging him like a fucking _fag_ , you could finally see what the fuck is really important here!”

By the time he’s finished, his words are a shout. If people were wordlessly passing them by before, they’ve stopped dead in their tracks now, drawn like hyenas to a carcass at the first sign of a fight. Sirius’ reputation lies in tatters, dripping blood all over the linoleum floor. To his right, Remus has frozen; to his left, James shakes with rage.

“What the actual _fuck_ ,” his best friend starts furiously before Sirius cuts him off.

Face ashen, his lips part. “You’re lying.”

“Lying? _Lying?_ If you really wanted people to believe you, you probably shouldn’t fucking suck his face off in the middle of the fucking library then.” Regulus laughs again, cruel. “You’ve been sneaking around with him for months and I haven’t said anything, but now you accuse me of lying when I do? Ashamed of it, are you? I don’t blame you, it’s fucking disgusting – “

Maybe he intends to continue, voice climbing higher and louder until he’s sure everyone in London can hear Sirius’ secrets being stripped back bit by bit – but James, blinded with fury, bursts forward with a yell, a fist meeting Regulus’ mouth.

All hell breaks loose.

The two boys stagger to the floor, writhing as they struggle to get the upper hand. All around them, students screech, rush forward to assemble a loose circle, chanting names and encouragements and announcing that Potter’s having another fight outside the canteen. And Sirius, Sirius is _shaking_ , petrified, heat creeping up the back of his neck as cameras zoom in to his panicked eyes, Remus automatically reaching out a concerned hand before he snatches it back, terrified that it will be misconstrued or, worse, taken exactly as it is.

Bile crawls in his throat.

His mother’s going to kill him.

* * *

 

 

In the sixteen years he’s lived, he’s never seen his mother so quiet.

Silence smothers the drawing room. It’s malevolent and bitter, cloaking the violence that is yet to come, settling heavily over the mahogany furniture and dark tapestries. Unrelenting, it wraps around Sirius like a noose and presses down on his chest as he waits for his punishment, unable to meet the Black matriarch’s eyes.

Beside him stands his brother. Blood splits his bottom lip, a ravine made all the more noticeable by the size it’s swollen to. For once, his uniform has fallen far short of perfect, rumpled and dishevelled in a way that mimics Sirius’ on a daily basis. He, too, dares not to breathe.

At last, their mother speaks. “Explain yourself,” she demands softly. It’s reminiscent of the days of their childhood back before she was less prone to hysterics but no less cruel, voice sweet like sugar and more dangerous than any gun.

Sirius swallows. “I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Another long silence. His mother giggles a little like a madwoman. “What I want you to say?” she echoes. Her nimble hands move to link behind her back, the tilt of her head far too casual for what they know is yet to come. “What I want? Well, ideally, I want you to say that your brother is pulling my leg and playing a silly little prank. That there is no _boy_ you’ve been sneaking around with, tarnishing our family’s reputation. That’s what I want you to say.”

“I…” His hands shake uncontrollably. Staring at her feet, bare against the rich carpet, he whispers, “I can’t.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Terror nearly renders him speechless. She’s giving him a chance to correct himself, he knows, but try as he might, the words she seeks won’t form on his tongue. Breath hitching in his throat, he repeats, “I can’t say that.”

Each moment of silence that follows lasts a lifetime. In the background, an ornate clock keeps track of the seconds, ceaselessly ticking on, the snaps of its hands piercing his ears. It appears to be counting down to his reckoning.

“The sight of you sickens me,” his mother hisses and then slams her palm across his face. A crack resounds through the air; his head snaps to the side with a burst of pain that calms into an endless throb. “I did not raise you to be so – so – disgusting, so _unnatural –_ “

“It’s not unnatural.”

Something has possessed his mouth, he’s sure of it.

“Being with another man,” she snarls, the words rising in volume by the second, “is _unnatural._ You are a stain on my name and I refuse to let a son of mine behave like some dirty, common _animal_ – “

Jaw clenched in determination as he turns to face her, Sirius repeats, “It is not unnatural,” and then, hand still trembling, yanks up the left sleeve of his shirt.

For a moment, no one seems to understand.

But then the realisation sets in, the black smudge on his exposed skin shifting and settling into words, six little letters – _Keep it,_ Remus whispers – that re-centred Sirius’ life over two years ago, rearranging it until it revolved around a boy with all-knowing butterscotch eyes and a spare pen. To his left, Regulus sucks in a sharp breath. His mother seems to have forgotten how to do so, wide eyes fixed on the tattoo wordlessly.

“I’m only going to say this once,” she says at last, unnaturally calm. Only the tightening of her skin around her eyes betrays her anger. “When I am done with you tonight, you will apologise to your brother for bringing him shame. Then you will cut off all contact with the little bastard who did this to him, Euphemia Potter’s boy, and you will quit the hockey team without delay. And then you will tell this – this _boy_ you think you’re so in love with that he is to never speak to you again and you will cover that mark or so help me, I will remove it myself. I never want to hear of this again. Is that clear?”

Truth be told, he doesn’t know what he expected. After all, wasn’t it his mother who taught him that soulmates are nothing more than slave owners, that all they do is chain you to their side until God sees fit to strike them down? Wasn’t it she who crushed his dreams for one as soon as they first formed?

Regulus stirs. “Mother…”

“No,” Sirius cuts across him. The word is quiet, almost an exhale of air than an outright refusal, but as he meets his mother’s incredulous eyes, he knows she’s heard. Firmer, he says again, “No. I’m not going to do that.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No.” He’s shaking his head now, frantic. Beneath the constant terror, a spark of anger flickers into existence. From the depths of his being, he fumbles for a half-forgotten shield of courage, reaching for something to fan the flames. “No, I won’t, I refuse. You can’t make me.”

“Yes, I can and yes, I will – “

“No. No, no, _no,_ you can’t make me do anything – I won’t stop seeing him, I won’t forget about my mark, I won’t listen to you, you don’t get to take this from me – “

“Insolent boy!” she hisses before she leaps forward.

Nine years before, Walburga Black swept into the family room where an unsuspecting Sirius curled up with a book and tore into him, pulling him down as she lost herself in a frenzy like she had stretched herself too tightly and was finally bouncing back. It ended in a slap to the cheek, the first one she indulged in but not the last.

This time around, when she strikes, it doesn’t stop at a mere slap to the face.

Howling with outrage, she cracks the back of her hand against his mouth, the heavy stone of her wedding ring cutting across the skin, knocking into his teeth, scraping across his cheek. Before he can even stumble back, she claws for him, nails scrabbling against his scalp as she searches for purchase in his hair. Her free hand closes around his throat.

He can’t even think under the assault. Heart in his throat, desperation spilling from his mouth in gasps of pain and pleas, he struggles to pull her off, fingers sliding uselessly against her arms. She’s everywhere at once, jerking his head back at an impossible angle, stick-thin elbows digging against his torso, screeching into his ears. The world splits into splinters – spinning furniture, his mother’s crazed eyes, his brother trying to wrap an arm around her waist – until his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground.

“Mother,“ he manages before she digs her claws into his hair again.

She pulls his head back – and then slams it into the side of the coffee table.

“You _dare_ answer back to me!” she screams into his face. “After everything I’ve sacrificed, _everything_ I’ve done for this family – who do you think you are to refuse _me?”_ His head crashes into the corner of the table again, crippling him with pain. “ _WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?_ ”

“Mother!” Regulus cries, horrified. Wrapping his arms around her, he drags her away, even as she kicks her legs, yells and screams. “Mother, stop, _stop!_ You’re going to kill him!”

“Good! It’s nothing less than he deserves! Better a dead son than an unnatural one! Better that than _him_.”

Everything spins. Sirius can barely see two feet ahead of him, the agony in his head crippling his ability to process anything. His senses have gone haywire – throat flexing like he’s about to throw up, prickling like it’s fucking on _fire_ – lungs seizing up like he’s never breathed in air, like he’ll never get enough to make it past the next minute – skin crawling as something wet trickles down the side of his face like beads of water in the shower.

Gasping, he struggles to get up. His palms lay flat on the floor, fingers splayed out against the dark green carpet as he pushes himself onto all fours.

“You’re mad,” he punches out, too delirious to even consider reining his words in. “You’re absolutely fucking _mad_ and I hate you – “

Still restrained by her youngest son, his mother continues to throw words at him at the top of her lungs. “Of course, you would, you good-for-nothing, unnatural _freak_ , you and your father are just as bad as each other, treating me like I’m _nothing_ and never was. You did this to me, you are my ruin, tying me to that _bastard!_ The sight of you _sickens_ me – “

He shouldn’t talk back. He knows this. But his mouth betrays him with an insane laugh. “Why? Because I look too much like Father? Because he’s gone off somewhere to shag another whore and you’re stuck here with us?”

When his mother screams, she doesn’t even bother with words.

Sirius couldn’t care less. Finally staggering to his feet, he casts her one last look of derision and stumbles out of the room. Once he’s put one foot over the threshold, he breaks out into a run, flying up the stairs even as his body fights him against it, head spinning and ringing, knees weak. The room to his bedroom crashes open as he bursts in like a whirlwind.

He’s shaking.

From head to toe, his body trembles like a leaf in a gale, curling up as it dawns on him what’s just happened. Panic rises like a tsunami, laying waste to the blind rage that consumed him. Desperate, he searches for oxygen to calm himself down – but it’s like his room is shrinking around him and there’s not enough space or _air_ and he’s going to die here, his body admitting defeat and _oh god,_ he just wants Remus to hold him and kiss him, to collect the frantic thoughts and calm him down.

One thought pierces through the fog in his mind, freezing his bones.

His mother’s going to kill him.

There’s no way Regulus can hold her back forever, no way that she is going to let him stew in his bedroom now that she’s finally toppled over the precipice of sanity, no way that she isn’t going to fly up those stairs and make him regret ever speaking.

He needs to leave.

He needs to grab his things and he needs to leave _now_. Like a switch has flicked, he tears himself out of his catatonic state and throws himself into motion. A gym bag here – spare clothes, any ones, it doesn’t matter which, the night clothes that lay crumpled on his floor – phone, charger, school bag, hockey uniform – the blue pen that rests on his bedside table – no time for his toothbrush or toiletries. He throws it all in.

Three minutes later, he’s throwing open the front door of the house, his mother’s shrieks assaulting his ears, his brother crying out in alarm, and running into the sunshine. He tears down the street, still bleeding from his damn forehead, and doesn’t look back once.

* * *

Though he tries his hardest, James can’t quite keep the horror out of his expression. Since the moment he screamed the hospital down when born, he’s worn his emotions on the surface of his skin – delight curling his mouth, anger reddening his neck, anticipation worrying away at the inside of his cheek – so his fear easily settles in the way his eyes can’t stay still, in the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple as he carefully cleans the cut in Sirius’ forehead.

“Shit,” he exhales, breath strong and bitter. “This is – _shit._ ”

Unable to bear the uncertainty in his face any longer, Sirius closes his eyes and lets him work his magic. “Your breath smells of soy sauce.”

“Shut up. I ordered Chinese for tea.”

“Nice. Any leftovers?”

“Yeah, downstairs in the kitchen,” he says distractedly. He lowers the bloodied cotton pad and begins to delicately dab TCP on Sirius’ forehead. When he winces, James hurriedly apologies. “Sorry, sorry, it’ll be over in a second, I promise.”

He smooths out a plaster, bright peach against the porcelain skin, and then lightly taps the underside of Sirius’ chin to prompt him to open his eyes.

He dutifully obeys. “You done?”

James stands back with a nod, eyes still trained on the plaster. They fall to scan the rest of him, narrowing at the tinge of green spreading rapidly across Sirius’ right cheek, then appraising the rest of his dishevelled appearance.

Biting his lip hesitantly, he begins, “I really think you should go to the hospital. You probably have a concussion and I don’t – I’m not really a medical expert, mate, what if you have internal bleeding in your brain or something? I don’t want you to die on me.”

“I don’t have internal bleeding.”

“That’s what you _think_.”

Not in the mood to humour it, Sirius snaps, “I’m not going to the fucking hospital, alright?” Guilt follows just as quickly as the spike in anger, especially when James falls silent. Ducking his head in shame, he mutters, “Sorry. I just… I’m not risking that. I don’t know what’ll happen if the doctors ask questions.”

“Good,” James says furiously. “Let them ask questions. Your mother’s fucking crazy, she deserves to be locked up.”

“ _No!_ I mean – look, my mother… my parents, they’re not – not like yours. They’re absolute psychopaths. The entire family is really, aside from my Uncle Alphard, who ran away to freaking Malta, and Andromeda who’s disowned anyways. If anyone official gets involved, it’s not going to be pretty. I don’t want to drag your family into that.”

“But I can’t just – “ He sighs, looking around the bathroom as if the showerhead is going to spring to life and provide him with an answer. “We have to do something. They can’t get away with this.”

“James, just drop it, okay?” Sirius says tiredly. Now that he’s away from the house, the frenzy that possessed him has faded away. Adrenaline escapes him in a rush, leaving behind nothing but a lethargy that makes him want to crawl into James’ bed and tell the world to go away. He curls in on himself. “Let’s just forget what happened. I’m going to heal anyway.”

A question lies unasked in the air; it rises between them, cocks its head to the side and murmurs _will you really?_

“What about my parents? When they get home, they’ll want to know what’s up.”

“We’ll make something up,” he says with a shrug. When James’ uncertainty only grows, he adds with a confidence he doesn’t feel, “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

(When Mr and Mrs Potter arrive later, business suits crumpled and overpriced cups of Starbucks cappuccinos in their grasps, it’s to find the boys curled up under a blanket on the sofa, Regina George’s hands flicking through the Burn Book on the mounted tv. They seem to accept Sirius’ excuse for his injuries readily enough, chuckling when he describes his dramatic fall down the stairs in his house and asking if they’re up for a quick spot of food.

But then their eyes linger on his bruised cheek for too long to be subtle. And they pile extra food onto his plate despite his protests that he’s full. And later, when fatigue finally claims him, Mrs Potter presses a kiss onto his cheek just before he heads up to bed, the gesture warmer than anything his mother has ever offered.

And the next day, they don’t ask him when he’s going to be heading back or whether he’s up for school, only tip half a dozen pancakes in front of him and inform James that he’s still grounded for getting into another fight at school.)

* * *

Returning to school is just as stressful as he anticipates.

He keeps James company during the three days of his suspension, citing that he’s just being a loving friend and making sure his best mate isn’t bored out of his mind by himself; James plays along with the excuse like he doesn’t know the true reason, wiping a fake tear from his eye in gratitude. On the first day, Remus turns up a couple of hours after the morning bell is set to ring, dressed in his uniform and armed with junk food.

“I bring reinforcements,” he announces dramatically. Despite the playful quirk to his mouth, a furrow between his eyebrows betrays his anxiety, deepening when he notices the sorry state of his other half. “No need to thank me.”

James yells in an incomprehensible mess of glee and dives forward to relieve Remus of his baggage. As he dumps it all on the coffee table, Remus tentatively edges towards Sirius. His hand twitches by his side before he curls into a fist, tucking it away in the pocket of his trousers.

“You alright?” he says softly.

A small part of Sirius grows annoyed at his cautiousness. It’s just a fucking _plaster_ on his head, after all, nothing much to worry about. He’s not a wounded animal or some hurt child. But then he remembers that there are two of them in this secret relationship of theirs – well, what used to be one anyway. Yesterday was difficult for both of them.

Forcing a long breath to calm himself down, he manages a small smile. “Yeah,” he replies. “You?”

When he nods, Sirius reaches out and slips his hand into his pocket. It’s a tight fit and he doesn’t remove his eyes from Remus’ as he wriggles around until his fingers are intertwined with the other’s. Warmth blooms in every inch of skin that presses against Remus’ palm, lazily gliding up his arm to spread through his body. It kisses the tattoo on his left arm.

Perhaps he should be more anxious in initiating contact. After all, he’s never been comfortable with the thought of everyone knowing about his shortcomings and his parents have trained him to believe his feelings for Remus are beyond that – but here, holding his soulmate’s hands and breathing in the cool scent of his body wash, his love doesn’t feel that way. It feels right. Like everything will be okay.

Three days later, he hovers at the front gates of their school and tries to remind himself of this.

“C’mon mate,” says James, placing a rough hand on his shoulder. He squeezes once, a brief pump of confidence. “You can do this.”

For half a second, Sirius allows his eyes to flicker shut, to pretend like he can’t notice the stares the two have begun to already attract. Paranoia hisses that the bruise blossomed across his cheek is peeking through the makeup James painstakingly masked it with earlier; his nerves tell him to run.

But then, his ears filter out the whispers like they’re not there. He throws his shoulders back. Recalls the lessons his mother drilled into him about behaving like a proper Black. To be strong, be proud, to not let them see weakness. To walk like he rules them because that is his calling. To not give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall. If there’s one thing Sirius has been able to do, it’s fake it till he makes it.

Nothing changes yet everything does.

At the end of the day, he’s still Sirius Black: one of the school’s princes. When he walks down the hallways, the looks he receives are friendly and admiring, the younger years tracking him with an awe that James finds hilarious (even though he gets the same treatment) and the older ones tossing him grins of camaraderie. Classmates still holler his name as they tackle him from behind, ruffling his hair. They still like his posts on Instagram and send him snaps and invite him to house parties over the weekend.

But now his hand stays tucked in Remus’ whenever they travel between classes together. Sometimes, it shakes like it’s the middle of the goddamn winter until he curls his fingers around Remus’ so tightly he likely cuts off circulation in the other boy’s hand. He never complains, however, only tightening his grip in return as Sirius returns any curious looks with a defiance he doesn’t entirely fake.

Remus Lupin is his soulmate.

Now that the secret’s out, he’ll be damned if he lets anyone mock him for it. If he could stand up to his mother, the rest of the school means nothing. Not even Regulus, guilty-eyed as he ducks his head and avoids his brother whenever they cross paths.

(And if Sirius nearly breaks down from the stress in the bathroom a couple of times, then that’s his business.)

* * *

At sixteen years old, Sirius is legally allowed to move out of his parents’ house. It’s never been something he’s entertained, a fantasy meant for the deepest depths of his imagination, but it happens without much fanfare once he finally escapes. One second, he’s staying over at the Potters’ for a few days; the next, there’s a new wardrobe full of clothes waiting for him when he returns from school. He recognises some of his knick-knacks from his old room back at Grimmauld Place, though he hasn’t returned since that fateful day. Something tells him James and Regulus are behind it.

(It’s probably the stupid grin his best mate has when he tries to nonchalantly note the new décor from the doorway that gives him away.)

His mother doesn’t try to contact him. His father probably isn’t even in the same country and he’s not sure whether he’ll even notice Sirius’ absence if he is. Regulus will never abandon his family name in the same way as his brother so there’s no one to stop Sirius from slotting into the Potters’ home like it’s nothing new.

Except it is.

New, that is.

Life with them is – different.

After years of long afternoons in the townhouse with James, he’s well-accustomed to the vibrancy of the Potter family, but it’s one thing to witness it and quite another to _live_ it all twenty four hours of the day. He spends the first few weeks terrified to put one toe out of line, rapidly switching from his usual cheeky self into the shadow he was in the Black family home at the slightest provocation. It’s something he can’t quite shake off – the second he gets too comfortable, is too much at ease in his surroundings, he remembers that he sleeps in this house and that he must _behave_ or he’ll be punished.

If the Potters notice, they don’t say anything at first.

For example, when James gets it into his head that they need to make their way to the kitchen for breakfast like spies and ends up cartwheeling into the wall beside his parents’ room with a tremendous crash, Mrs Potter doesn’t shout when the noise wakes her up. She doesn’t even yell when she realises the boys have broken a fairly expensive vase in the process. Tired-eyed and wary, she merely secures her robe around her waist and flatly informs her son he is to clean it up.

“We’re _really_ sorry,” Sirius says, horrified. His stomach clenches in turmoil. They’ve messed up, oh God, they’ve messed up. “We didn’t mean to wake you up, I’m so sorry.”

Mrs Potter squints at him with bleary eyes. “Oh no, sweetie, don’t be. I hated that vase. Honestly, your father has such horrific taste sometimes,” she says as if Sirius really was born into their family. “You’ve done the rest of us a favour.”

“Excellent!” James exclaims, rubbing at his hip. “So I don’t need to clean it up?”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Get the damn dustpan and brush out.”

“Ugh. _Fine.”_

It isn’t until exam season has passed and the two have left secondary school in a slew of graduation pictures, cheeky messages in yearbooks, presents to their favourite teachers and a prom party where they both end up winning awards (‘Most Likely to Take Over the World’ for James and ‘Most Likely to Be Late to their Own Funeral’ for him) that it finally comes up. Perhaps they thought it would eventually go away or perhaps they simply didn’t know how to approach the subject, but one day, after Mr and Mrs Potter argue over whose turn it is to cook dinner and he immediately withdraws for the rest of the evening, there comes a knock on his bedroom door a few hours later.

“Hey,” Mr Potter says softly, hovering in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

Sirius sits up from his sprawl with a shrug. “It’s your house,” he says.

“Yes, but this is your room,” comes the reply and though the concept still baffles him, Sirius nods like he understands and pats the space beside him invitingly. Mr Potter settles down on it with a groan, rubbing at the small of his back. “God, I’m getting old.”

Sirius grins. “Not _that_ old,” he says even though one would have to be blinder than a bat to not realise that James’ dad isn’t in his prime. “You’re on the right side of a hundred, right?”

“Oi, you little brat,” Mr Potter says with a laugh. He ruffles Sirius’ hair and then pulls him in to his chest. “I came here to talk to you about something.”

Fear seeps into Sirius’ mouth. Thankful the older man can’t see his face, it invades his smile, pulling it down by the corners until he has to bite his lip to keep it under control. This is the moment, he thinks, still on edge from seeing the Potters disagree earlier on. This is the moment they realise that it’s not worth having another mouth to feed and they send him away.

Oblivious to the terror rampaging through Sirius’ brain, Mr Potter continues casually, “I’m not sure how to go about it as it’s a rather sensitive topic so please bear with me. Let me know if I overstep my boundaries.”

Shit. He should’ve known things have been too good to be true.

“Okay,” Sirius says, grateful that his voice doesn’t crack with the word. “Will do.”

“Over the past couple of months that you’ve been living with us,” says Mr Potter, carding his fingers through Sirius’ hair. The movement is steady and comforting, though there’s a tension in his shoulders that refuses to go away. “Euphemia and I have… realised something. About – well, about the way you sometimes react to things.”

His teeth dig into his lip more forcefully. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he admits as a faint trace of blood washes onto his tongue.

“I mean… well, you – the thing is that you’ve been James’ friend for a long time, Sirius, and in that time, you’ve become somewhat of a permanent fixture in the house. Not that we mind, of course, what’s ours is yours, but we’ve noticed a… _difference_ , you might say, in the way you used to behave and the way you sometimes are now that you’ve officially moved in. An… anxiety, almost? It’s almost like you’re always on edge, just waiting for something to happen and – and we thought that it’d be best to address it?” The suggestion comes out uncertain like Mr Potter is fumbling along in the dark just as much as he is. “Just to make sure that you’re comfortable here, of course. We don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t be at home with us.”

“I…”

Honestly, Sirius doesn’t know what to say. It seems his mouth decides for him without consulting his brain because he blurts out, “You’re not kicking me out?”

The fingers in his hair still. “What? Why on earth would we do that?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” he mutters, turning red. How can he explain the constant fear that resides within him, the constant dread that the Potters will suddenly realise what they’ve let into their home and turn away in disgust? How can he explain how alien it is to be so relaxed in the place he sleeps, to force himself to lower his guard when it’s all that has kept him alive so far? “I just thought… maybe you’d gotten sick of me.”

There’s a small pause. And then Mr Potter, clearly resisting the urge to smother him with a hug, says rather light-heartedly, “Son, if I can handle James for sixteen years, I can handle anything and anyone.”

He laughs. It’s not very funny, but he laughs anyway because god, he’s finally _wanted_ by someone, finally welcome somewhere and he’s not being kicked out, not being turned away. Mr and Mrs Potter _want_ him here, can handle him and though they’ll never grasp quite how much it means to him, his heart swells with gratitude.

“I’m an angel compared to him,” he jokes.

“That you are,” he says charitably before pulling back so he can prompt the boy to meet his eyes. Mr Potter has always had a kind pair – round and large with a tenderness to them that he claimed stole his wife’s heart away at first glance – and right now, they flood with such a gentleness that Sirius can’t bring himself to keep up his teasing grin. It slips away as a stiff lump in his throat appears. “You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if it’s something scary, something you’d rather not think about. I’m here to listen to you.”

“I know,” Sirius whispers. As the lump pushes against his vocal cords, he begins to tremble. “It’s just – I… I’m scared.”

Mr Potter’s mouth twists with compassion. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. Not in this household. Not with us. We’ll treat you right, alright, son? We’ll treat you well.”

Unable to muster up any words, Sirius nods rapidly. And just like that, he breaks, tears spilling over his lashlines and rolling down his cheeks. A broken noise scrapes its away out from the back of his throat and he sobs, trying to push it back in with his hand. As he curls up, a hand presses gently against his spine and then he’s being pulled into a firm embrace, head against a warm chest, soft assurances murmured into his hair as he falls apart again.

This time around, he lets others help stitch him back together.

* * *

(They ask him later when he’s calmed down and the memory of that night lurks in the week that’s just passed if he wants to press charges. Only that prospect terrifies him more than he can imagine because his family is _dangerous_ and _powerful_ and he doesn’t care about justice, just wants to leave, just wants to get away, stay away, forget anything ever happened.

The Potters are disappointed, of course, but the matter is reluctantly dropped, and he can finally breathe again.)

* * *

He misses Remus.

Misses soft brown waves brushing against his temple when the other boy yawns and curls into him, touchy when he’s tired and affectionate beyond words, his long nose running against Sirius’ jaw with a sigh of contentment. He misses the splay of his fingers on the spines of a book or on the small of Sirius’ back or the way his thumb sometimes traces the obsidian letters on Sirius’ skin. He misses his smile, the way it slowly takes form and is sweeter than anything he’s ever had the pleasure to witness, like liquid honey on a humid summer morning.

Remus’ voice speaks to him through the phone every evening, but it’s a mere shadow of the real thing, transmitted across satellites and thousands of miles, running along the ocean floors until it washes upon the shores of Busan. It’s somewhat of a tradition for the Potters to visit Euphemia’s side of the family here every summer; now that he’s officially one of the unit, he’s been whisked away to do the same.

Busan is nice.

Beautiful, even. The beaches are lovely in the evenings, sand soft under his bare feet, and there’s a weighted excitement to the air that comes with being somewhere new. Every bustling street is a new adventure, every dish a foray into another world. He enjoys it, sucks in the pleasure of a brand new experience, but there’s an ache in his heart that comes from being over five thousand miles away from his other half.

Most of the time, he gets swept away by the holiday, too busy to consider the twinge in his chest when he spies Remus’ name on his phone, but sometimes it creeps upon him until he’s suffocating in it.

“I need some air,” he declares to James on one such day. Restlessness has claimed his limbs, making him fidget every two seconds from where the two slouch on one of James’ aunt’s sofas, sluggishly playing Mario Kart on the Playstation.

James doesn’t even glance at him. “Well, there’s plenty to go round so have at it.”

“Prat.” He clambers to his feet and heads towards the door. “I’m going to the cornershop, be back in ten.”

Not waiting for a reply, he pulls the door open and steps out into the sunshine. Busan in August is sort of like being in a melting pot: the heat is oppressive, his clothes a second layer of skin with a grimy layer of sweat as an adhesive, and the humidity weighs down the cloying atmosphere. He’s taken to wearing snapbacks over his face like a wannabe 00s Chris Brown and baring every bit of skin he can get away with. His tattoo flashes conspicuously on his arm.

(The first time James’ extended family saw it, their excitement knew no bounds. Within moments, there was a wall of people eager to catch a glimpse of the words on his left arm and a flurry of questions upon him about his soulmate. Luckily, Mr and Mrs Potter waved them off with a well-placed reprimand or two until the discussion was left in the dust.

He supposes he should be more concerned about their personal lack of curiosity, but truthfully, he’s just glad they got everyone to stop.)

Caught between bemoaning the heat and the absence of Remus, he doesn’t notice the car until it comes to a sharp stop beside him and the door is thrown open, nearly smacking into his gut.

“Hey, what the – “ he automatically cries, outburst indignant and in instinctive English, until he registers just who is eyeing him down from the backseat. The words die abruptly in his throat. “I…”

His father meets his panic with an impassive stare. “Get in the car,” he commands softly. The words are spoken so calmly, so devoid of rage or disgust that they reach into Sirius’ chest to squeeze his heart to a pulp in terror. It doesn’t even occur to him to refuse.

 _Fuck_.

As soon as he’s settled down beside him, his father raps on the headrest of the driver’s seat. “Drive around the block until I tell you to stop,” he instructs and then leans back to once again stare Sirius down, one hand fluttering towards his pocket in search of a cigarette. He raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

He’s never been more terrified in his life. “How did you find me?” he manages, only to be met with a snicker.

“It’s really not that hard to track someone down, you know. Not if you know the right people. Besides, the Potters are always in Busan at this time of year, they’re awfully unoriginal when it comes to holidays. It turned out that I was just in Osaka so I thought I’d take a pit stop on my way home.”

While he speaks, his father manages to pull out a cigarette and lights it. The sweet smell of tobacco instantly invades the car, somehow putting Sirius on edge even more. He watches him lift it to his mouth, indulge in a drag and then exhale into the tense air. His father’s shoulders relax under the expensive material of his suit.

“So,” he says conversationally, “you’ve officially run away from home. Followed in Alphard’s footsteps, have you?”

“I…”

“Yes or no?” his father prompts, throwing him a sharp glare in his impatience. “You have a voice, don’t you? Use it.”

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “Yes. I have.”

His father nods slowly. Takes another drag and says, “I can’t say I’m surprised. You never did behave like one of us. It’s one of your mother’s many complaints.”

Absurdly, the statement stings. From a logical point of view, he doesn’t want to be like the rest of his family. He doesn’t want the calculating politics or the mad cruelty or the inescapable superiority complex. He doesn’t want the violent tendencies nor the oppressive standards of conduct. The Blacks are awful people and living away from them only highlights this.

But.

For all his flaws, Orion Black is still his father. There’s still a small part of Sirius that seeks his approval, craves the acknowledgement that his father gave sparingly throughout his childhood. Just like that, however, it’s crumbled away with the wind and his father isn’t even the slightest bit concerned.

Sirius pushes past the irrational hurt. Swallowing, he says, “I’m not going to go back.” By some grace of God, his voice doesn’t falter, though there’s a shake towards the end that entices a smirk from the other man. “I won’t.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

He blinks. What? Surely, there should be more of a fight? After all the emphasis placed upon his surname and just whose son he is, he’s never expected his father to accept it so… nonchalantly. It took him _so much_ to gather the courage to leave. How can it be so simple, so easy? Did he delay the act for no reason?

“You don’t?”

His father chuckles again. Indulging in one last drag of his cigarette, he tosses it out of the window and pins him down with a cold stare. “No. I don’t. Your mother might not like it, but your soulmate is that Lupin boy – Yes, I know his name,” he says when Sirius flinches in surprise. “You think I don’t know exactly who you spend your time with? Of course, I do. I might not have known the nature of your relationship.” Here, his lip curls in disgust. “But I’ve known who he is since you were thirteen years old.

“And I know you too. I know how stubborn you are. You insisted on befriending Euphemia’s kid, insisted on joining a hockey team of all things – I know you won’t give Lupin up, no matter how unnatural it is. But I also know that I will not have you carry my last name while you fuck around with this boy so here’s what’s going to happen: you will renounce all claim to the Blacks. You will cut off all contact with our family, Regulus included. When you turn eighteen years old, you will be granted access to your trust fund, but you will never seek to claim any inheritance should I die. Everything will go to your brother and you will not see a single penny of it.

“You will not breathe a single word about what happened in that house. Nothing to do with me, nothing to do with your mother, nothing to do with you. If I catch a _hint_ of the authorities getting involved, people will get hurt. Things won’t be pretty, I can assure you of that. Understand?”

Petrified, Sirius can only nod.

“Good. From this moment on, you are not one of us,” his father says with a humourless smile. The curve of his mouth is slight but solid. Cold and final. It twists minutely as his eyes harden with a glare, sharp flints of slate in his weathered face. “Now get out of the damn car.”

The Mercedes abruptly screeches to a halt. Sirius’s head nearly smacks into the seat in front of him, whiplash harsh on the muscles of his neck. His hands shoot out to steady himself and then they fumble for the handle of the door, desperate to get away before his father changes his mind. At the last second, however, he hesitates, something about his father’s demands striking a chord within him.

“I…”

“What is it?” his father demands, icy and annoyed.

Swallowing, he throws a cautious glance back at him. “Did you know?” Sirius asks. His mind swims with more details, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. In the end, all he manages is, “I – Mum – what... Did you know?”

The silence that succeeds his question lasts a lifetime. Throat dry, tongue anxiously licking at his lips, Sirius waits for an answer. Deep in his heart, he yearns for a denial. Something that tells him that perhaps not everything was so bad.

“Yes,” Orion admits. “I did. Your mother did always have a penchant for dramatics.”

Everything escapes him in a rush. Tears well in his eyes before he can tell them otherwise and he turns away furiously, scrambling for the handle. The door is flung open, humid Busan air squeezing his chest and claiming his breath as he stumbles away from the car. The tears fall in earnest, sticky and feverish against his cheeks.

He _knew_.

He’s always known. He’s just never cared.

In the distance, his father drives away.

* * *

When the Potters find out, it’s almost too easy.

Even during the summer, they’re mostly out working long hours each day, the two restless without a busy schedule to demand all of their time. Sirius often wakes up during the holidays to find that they’ve already gone out, only James left to either lounge in the living room in his underwear or smother Sirius awake to go to practice, and doesn’t see them until the evening. Despite what one might think, it’s not unpleasant. For sixteen years, his mother was a perpetual presence in the house and the walls still radiated loneliness. At the Potters, their absence doesn’t really feel like one at all.

The freedom of the day, however, is too enticing to ignore.

It comes in the form of an empty house, James claiming that he’d much rather hang out with his now ex-girlfriend Mary than stomach through the nauseating display that is Remus and Sirius’ relationship. It feels like a countertop against his lower back, like the pressure of Remus’ thigh between his legs, like an arm encircling his shoulder and a hand in his hair. It tastes like lemonade and chocolate.

Freedom is teeth digging into his lip, soft moans against his throat. Freedom is pulling his soulmate flush against his body, it’s the feather-like skim of a hand against the hem of his t-shirt, tentative and then bold against his skin which suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. It’s the heady delirium of being sixteen years old and snogging your boyfriend in the kitchen, messy and eager and spiralling towards a precipice that will have them –

“Oh sweet Jesus,” exclaims Mr Potter.

Remus tears away from Sirius within a heartbeat. They exchange one terrified second – lips swollen, hair mussed, t-shirts bunched up to expose a glimmer of skin – before red crashes upon their cheeks like twin tidal waves and they look away.

“Er,” Remus says, unable to look James’ parents in the eye. “Hi?”

There’s a shocked silence –

And then Mr Potter bursts into laughter so fiercely he staggers into his wife’s side. She pushes him back, sending him a look that is equal parts fond as it is irritated, before fixing her attention on the two humiliated teenagers in front of them. Blazer slung over an arm, she offers them a smile.

“I hope you weren’t planning on stripping,” she says so casually that Sirius wants to melt into the floor in horror. Her smile turns a little wicked. “We don’t need to have the talk with you, do we?”

“No!” he shouts before remembering his place. More subdued, he repeats, “No, I – we can explain. We were just…”

“I’m not sure we want to know,” says Mr Potter, still grinning so wide that his face nearly splits in two. He crosses the kitchen to the kettle and pops it on. “But don’t worry, I was your age once. I know the hold your hormones can have on you.”

If Sirius thought he wanted to melt away earlier, he just wishes he was never born now. A glance sideways tells him Remus feels the same if his slightly constipated expression means anything.

“No one wants to know about your hormones, sweetheart. Not even me.”

Mr Potter frowns. “That’s rude. My hormones and I take offence to that.”

“Good.”

Bewildered, Sirius watches as Mr and Mrs Potter launch into a fresh round of bickering. It’s somewhat of a ritual for them, the insults and grimaces indulged in frequently before one of them leans over to peck the other on the mouth albeit with a roll of their eyes. This is the daily routine of their relationship and though Sirius usually absorbs it with significantly more enthusiasm than James, today it utterly perplexes him.

“You’re not mad?” he asks tentatively, interrupting Mr Potter’s dramatic speech on the Great Wooing of ’89. When the couple turn to him with frowns, he bites his bottom lip anxiously. To his left, Remus cautiously links their pinkie fingers together, a silent show of solidarity. “You’re not angry?”

A fresh furrow splits Mrs Potter’s brow. “Mad about what, honey? There’s nothing to be mad about.”

“So you’re – you’re okay with… Remus and me? You’re not – you’re not going to kick me out?”

The second the question leaves his mouth, reedy with insecurity, identical looks of horror bloom across James’ parents’ faces. Immediately, Mrs Potter rushes across the room to cup Sirius’ face, eyes sad when he automatically flinches before relaxing against her palms. Her thumbs stroke his cheeks.

“Listen to me,” she says fiercely. “There is nothing wrong with you or Remus. You two are _beautiful_ , sweetheart. I know you haven’t had the best life, that Walburga Black is quite frankly a bitch and treated you as no mother should, but you’re _my_ son, okay? You’ve been my son ever since James first brought you home. And I will never, ever judge my son for who he loves. The two of you were _made_ for each other; who am I to pass judgement on that?”

“I – “

To his embarrassment, tears spring to Sirius’ eyes. He feels like this year has seen him shed many of them, but he can’t bring himself to care, not at this moment. Not when Mrs Potter is feeding him all her love through the touch of her hands, not when there’s a slim finger hooked around his own, not when he finally feels like he’s at home.

“You really mean that?” he chokes out.

“Of course, I do,” she says so firmly that the tears spill onto his cheeks. She quirks a little smile. “Besides, haven’t you been calling me Mum for years anyway?” With that, she presses a kiss to his forehead. The gesture is more maternal than anything he’s ever experienced before.

Smiling, Mrs Potter steps back from him, letting him catch his breath. Her eyes meet Remus’ and the smile softens.

“Thank you,” he says, quiet with emotion. His finger falls away from Sirius’, only for him to pull Sirius into a hug, letting the boy dampen his t-shirt as he shakes with relief, holding him to his chest so tightly that it almost hurts. A kiss falls on his hair. “It means a lot.”

Unable to speak, Sirius can only nod in agreement into the crook of Remus’ neck. With some murmured reassurances, Mr and Mrs Potter leave them to themselves, the kitchen emptying so it’s just the two of them again.

“Hey,” Remus whispers against the shell of his ear. “Hey. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Sirius screws his eyes shut, tears clinging to the lashes. “I know,” he says. It’s all he can manage in the moment, a lump in his throat blocking any other words. “I know.”

For minutes, they stay wrapped up in each other, clinging on as if this is the last time they’ll get to do so. Remus’ chin is careful on the top of Sirius’ head, his fingers splayed across his back. Their arms are bare, black ink pressed against each other firmly as if to reiterate it. As if to declare that Sirius is Remus’ and Remus is Sirius’. As if to say that they’re okay and nothing will change that.

As if to finally sigh that _this is it._

* * *

The summer after A2 is long and surprisingly cool. His skin still blisters under the sun’s glare, painfully raw and red when he accidentally skips out on sunscreen on a couple of days, and the flipflops he insists on wearing (mostly to annoy Remus) leaves embarrassing tan lines on his feet. But the summer is generous with its rainfall and breezes, so the long weeks do not crawl by but fly.

Summer is a time for indulgence.

Sirius lazes around in bed far longer than is socially acceptable before he eats breakfast at a time where most would be snacking on lunch. He wanders through the house, feet bare and oversized t-shirt angled strategically to reveal a shoulder, cheesy music from his childhood in the background and a book tucked in between his fingers. He lays on the sofas in absurd positions while aimlessly scrolling through tumblr on the laptop.

It is a time for rap battles with James, the two of them screaming into their mops and brushes in nothing but their underwear as they struggle to keep up with Biggie’s flow. A time for purposefully hogging James’ fan, crushed ice swelling his cheeks like a chipmunk’s as the peak of the heat arrives with vengeance. It’s a time for swapping snarky texts with Remus, typing _if someone offered me an Indian mango in return for stabbing you, i would do it in a heartbeat_ when he really means _you mean the world to me._

He spends his days watching James make the most of his last couple of months with the local ice hockey team, sometimes even joining in despite having left two years beforehand. His afternoons often see him in the bookshop café Remus works at, flirting with him over _Pride and Prejudice_ while he threatens to poison Sirius’ coffee. His evenings are dedicated to the Potters, the couple who took him in without question, the people he calls Mum and Dad.

On the odd occasion, it’s also dedicated to house parties.

With uni fast approaching, they are in full swing. Everyone is either celebrating summer or determined to throw the biggest send-off they can before they swan off to Leeds or Manchester or Bristol. Some people, mostly some of James’ ice hockey bros, are in a semi-permanent drunk haze because of it.

“Fam,” one of them exclaims loudly, clumsily grabbing at Sirius’ shoulder when he stumbles by. Jordan, he thinks his name is. Maybe Jackson. Sirius isn’t sure, they never played on the same team. “Fam. I am – very wee right now.”

Half-grinning, half-grimacing, Sirius reaches for Jordan’s wrists and tugs them off his body. The boy sways forward, eyes unfocused. “Nice to know, mate,” he says.

“I’m going to go wee now,” says Jordan, one broad hand patting Sirius all over the face. His thumb smacks into his nose before he sticks it up and staggers away. “See you bro.”

As he shoulders his way into the crowd, a faint snicker comes from Sirius’ right. Moments later, Remus angles his head and leans forward to murmur amusedly into his ear, “What the hell was that?”

“Jordan. Or Jackson. Maybe Johnson.”

“Ah. That clears it up.”

Sirius shoots him a glare. “My _nose hurts_ ,” he complains, pressing his palm to the offended feature in question. “Don’t mock me in my hour of pain.”

Remus smiles at him in that lovely, quiet way of his. Eyes as sweet as honey, the upwards tug of his mouth slow and sure, focused on him so with such steadfast fondness that it feels like they’re the only people in the world, even when they’re in a house party, perched on a sagging leather sofa with beers in their hands and sweat in the air. Lips as red as cherries, the low neckline of his top providing a good glimpse of his clavicles as they shine with a thin layer of sweat. Everything about him is so soft and compelling and Sirius’ heart _swells._

Even as Remus coos condescendingly and says, “Poor _baby_ ,” with one large hand lifting to caress his cheek. His thumb maps the contours of his cheekbones. “How will you survive?”

The more immature part of him considers knocking the hand away with a poke of his tongue and flipping him the bird. The rest of him, the bolder voice that grows louder with every mouthful of beer he gulps down, the part that he has cultivated over the past two years, tells him otherwise.

Unable to keep the mocking tone at bay completely, Sirius makes a show of batting his eyelashes and lowering his gaze. “I don’t think I will. Not without your help, at least.”

“Oh?” The smile deepens into a grin. Remus’ thumb comes to a stop. “What do you have in mind?”

He sighs dramatically. “I don’t know. I might feel better if you gave me a kiss to make me feel better. Something tells me that’ll work.”

“Oh, really? Is that something a Medic student or…?”

This time, he doesn’t bother holding back his glare. “Just kiss me, you twat,” Sirius orders, mouth subconsciously pushing out into a pout.

“So _demanding_ ,” says Remus, but he leans forward nonetheless.

Remus kisses sort of like how he smiles.

It starts off easy and slow like they have all the time in the world. He kisses like there’s no rush, languid and lazy, tongue tracing along the seam of Sirius’ lips until he accepts him with a gasp. His free hand comes up to cup the back of his head, secures him in place as if to ensure Sirius won’t run. It’s sweet and indulgence in its greatest form and Sirius _loves_ it, he really does, but he also needs more so he takes over the kiss, body rising from his slouch to push against the physical boundaries between their bodies.

When Sirius kisses – and by that, he means really _kisses_ , no inhibitions factored into the equation, no fears dictating his actions – it’s hungry. Because as much as he gets to taste Remus, as much as he’s aware that they have decades ahead of them, nothing is ever quite enough.

“Slow down,” Remus chuckles against his mouth. “We’re in public.”

Once upon a time, those words would’ve been enough to snap him out of it. Just two years ago, even holding his soulmate’s hand in public felt like a Herculean task; the constant trepidation of his mother’s wrath was difficult to shed. His body used to tremble like an autumn leaf in the wind, ready to fall away as soon as the gust was too strong for him.

Now, he only whines and moves to press quick kisses against the column of Remus’ neck. “Slow down?” he mutters. “Never heard of her.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he sighs, threading his fingers through Sirius’ hair affectionately. He tugs him back, eliciting a small involuntary moan from his other half as the strands pull taut against his scalp. When Sirius turns red, he raises an eyebrow. “We should probably continue this at home. I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to strip in the middle of Hestia’s house in front of half the college, you know?”

Far too eager, Sirius shoots to his feet. “Okay!” At the questioning glance he receives, he adds defensively, “What? Don’t judge me, it’s been way too long since we’ve done anything. You and your goddamn double shifts.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting to make some extra money.”

“You’re excused,” he says graciously and is granted a withering glance in return for it. Sirius grins and grabs his hand, tugging him towards the front door. “C’mon, let’s go. I’ll text James on the way.”

Laughing lightly at his excitement, Remus lets him weave them through the crowded house, throwing apologies here and there, nodding to anyone he vaguely recognises, until they’re outside. Fresh air hits the two of them abruptly, packing a punch after the sweltering heat of Hestia’s house. Above, the night sky is dim with clouds, faint stars straining to peek through the darkness and pollution.

“It’s a nice night,” says Sirius as they walk through the streets. There’s a faint buzz still in his system, the remnants of his beer and the good mood of the party, but he’s mostly sober as he leans into Remus’ side. “The moon looks pretty.”

“Is this the part where I say you look prettier?”

Sirius shoves him. “Shut _up_ ,” he laughs. “Stop ruining the moment.”

“I’m freezing my balls off. There’s no moment.”

“Romance is dead,” Sirius declares, stopping suddenly in the street. He turns until he’s facing Remus, straining on his tiptoes to reach upwards and cup his face and stare seriously into his eyes. “And yet I still put up with you.”

Another one of his smiles. “Romance pretty much abandoned us from day one,” he says teasingly, “when you decided to ignore me for eight months.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“You,” Sirius informs him, “are extremely irritating.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“And because you are so irritating, you have to make it up to me. With sex that’s out of this world. That is the bomb dot com. That is – “

Remus groans and rolls his eyes. “Why,” he demands flatly, hands reaching up to encircle both of Sirius’ wrists, long fingers shades darker than the skin there, “am I with someone who uses phrases like _the bomb dot com_?”

“Just incredible luck, I suppose,” he says cheerily.

The look Remus throws is another one of his trademark disdainful grimaces. But the glance is superficial, slipping away like water in someone’s palms, like a weak mirage in the desert, and there’s no hiding the affection that is unveiled. With a minute twist of his head, Remus presses a soft kiss to the inside of Sirius’ wrist, just above where his pulse jumps at the contact, where the elegant script of his soul words ends.

A little over four and a half years ago, the words imprinted there finally burned black into his skin. He’d asked for a pen and the universe gave him a soulmate instead, a boy with soft brown waves and a delicate air that belied his spine of steel. Four and a half years ago, Sirius ran from the gift, swearing he would never change his mind.

Two years after that, he planted his feet on the ground, blood trickling from the side of his head and mind spinning, and he stopped running. Admitted defeat and admitted it proudly – because if love is a shackle, if the brand on his soul is a chain, then he’s glad to be imprisoned. Because imprisonment tastes a lot like chocolate and feels like a pinkie hooked around his own. Because imprisonment seems a lot like acceptance in his eyes.

Because his mother hates him for looking a little too much like his father, but Remus has fallen for each and every crevice of his body. Because his father called him unnatural, but Mrs Potter, his mum, she called him beautiful. Because Regulus used to silently throw him a bag of ice after his mother went on a rampage while James split his knuckles to defend him.

Once, many years ago, Sirius was four years old and enchanted by the idea of soulmates. His mother was quick to crush that dream, shredding it to pieces with a few casual remarks from her forked tongue. Soulmates aren’t nearly as romantic as you think they are, she scoffed, her own mark a permanent claim of ownership on her skin. In some ways she was right – Sirius and Remus weren’t nearly as romantic as the stories liked to say, their story convoluted with fear and insecurity.

( _You know_ , Remus whispered one night in college as the moonlight crept its way in through a crack in his curtains, _I used to think you were ashamed of me. That maybe I wasn’t good enough for you to show off in public. That this was all a whim of today and there was no promise of tomorrow. But I was too damn in love with you to risk losing you by saying that._ )

In many ways, however, she was wrong. Because right here, right now, when the night air is frigid, and the sky hides its stars, Sirius has never felt more at peace. He has never felt more _alive_ , Remus’ lips gentle against permanent letters and his heart in his throat.

“Come on,” Sirius murmurs softly. “Let’s go home.”

Their fingers intertwine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (bonus ⇻ sirius' texts)
> 
> Sirius: Heading home with Remus  
> James: Okay, but I swear to God if you send me another pic of his naked arse in the morning sunlight, I will personally make sure you never see live to see uni :)  
> Sirius: No promises ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> anyways that's our baby sirius' story. to see more of confident and secure sirius+wolfstar feel free to check out the story of jily in 'ice baby'. also if you have any questions or thoughts about some of the decisions i made when writing this fic (like the whole no charges thing), don't be afraid to comment or drop an ask in my tumblr! i like to think i'm pretty friendly tbh
> 
> <3


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